Se Salva
by happyharper13
Summary: Catherine, Greg and Nick struggle through a brutal hostage crisis and only two CSIs make it out. The entire team grapples with the aftermath, uncovering mysteries -- including a tragic love story of years past -- in the process. NG CW
1. Veinte Minutos

**Summary:** Four robbers return to the scene of a casino heist, resulting in a brutal hostage situation for the three CSIs still processing the casino. Only two CSIs make it out, and the entire team struggles with the aftermath. Catherine and Warrick try to hold what's left of the team together, even when it means putting it before their personal lives. Wendy strives to fill Greg's footsteps and fulfill her own dreams as she finishes her proficiencies, while Nick is devastated by grief - and heartbreak. Grissom decides that an addition to the team is what everyone needs - or is it just what he needs? Finally, Catherine recognizes a pair of melancholy eyes on the man who took her, Nick and Greg hostage on that gruesome night, bringing back memories of a tragic love story of years far past.

**Major Characters:** Cath, Nick, Warrick, Wendy, Greg (meaning that scenes will be split between the five perspectives, with a few going to Grissom and Sara)

**Minor Characters:** Grissom, Hodges, Archie, Sara, Brass, multiple OFCs and OMCs

**Warnings:** Heavy themes

**Pairings:** NSxGS, CWxWB, GGxSS, WSx?,...

**Timeline:** Season 8 (Sara is in Frisco, Warrick is alive and divorced, and Wendy is set on becoming a CSI)

**Beta/Help:** LaughableBlackStorm (overall), WitchGirl (plot advice) and LostLadyKnight (Yo!Bling consulting)

**Disclaimer:** If I owned it, Greg would get more screentime, Warrick wouldn't be dead, Yo!Bling would be canon and Standers would get wayy more subtext. Insert other conditionals here.

**Final Author's Notes:**

Yes, there is a reason that the title and chapters are in Spanish. On that subject, I can promise two things: a) it'll make sense later why so much is in Spanish, and b) you won't have to know Spanish to understand the story.

Without further ado...

Veinte Minutos

...

_Salvar: to save, to overcome, to preserve, to rescue, to cover, to pass_

_Salvarse: to survive, to escape_

...

Catherine groaned, looking at the caller ID. It was, really, inevitable that only one person would have this impeccably bad timing. There was one person in Catherine's life who consistently operated on his own time schedule.

There was no need to bother with formal greetings. "What's up, Gil?"

"Catherine. We need to talk."

"When?"

"Now would be preferable."

Catherine nodded into her phone, looking out over the congested road in front of her. "Given rush hour, I should have at least 15 to 20 minutes to talk here." 

"The case is being called off."

"Case? But Wendy and Rick are already there - it looked like there was plenty more to process, and there -" Grissom's somber silence on the other end told Catherine the whole story. "_That _case."

"Yes. That case."

Catherine choked back a sob.

_That _case. Victim: Gregory Hojem Sanders.

Catherine pulled her car up to the side of the road, unable to take the call any other way. "What happened?"

"Limited resources. They said searching for a dead body isn't worth Fed resources, especially with budget cuts. Bruce Jared, the casino owner, didn't push it. Apparently, the Fed investigation was costing him more with customers than he even lost in the heist. Or something like that."

Impersonal politics cut knives through the case, which itself was all but impersonal.

Catherine cried and remembered.

* * *

_Detective Caveliere stood at the entrance to the casino, an impatient look on his face. _

_"It's about time you got here, Willows," he remarked, checking his watch again. _

_Catherine knew that Caveliere was one of the more ambitious detectives and certainly didn't like to degrade himself by babysitting CSIs. Nonetheless, a supervisory LVPD employee - of any capacity, be it CSI or Police officer - was required for the high profile case at all times. _

_Catherine shrugged off the comment, getting straight to business. "Which room?"_

_"Stokes and Sanders are downstairs processing. Take a right at the elevator, walk down the first hallway and take a left. Then another left after two doors."_

_Catherine nodded, quickly storing the information away. "Thanks, Detective."_

xxxxxxx

_Catherine found the room quickly, and immediately found that she had, in fact, been in it before, back in the day. _

_A chuckle escaped the room. Catherine smiled, and tip-toed toward the door. _

_She could hear the conversation through the crack in the door. _

_"And then _Meg_ says that she doesn't need avocados. She's got Thanksgiving dinner under control."_

_"Greggo - why would you offer your friend _avocados_ as an ingredient for _Thanksgiving_ dinner? No wonder Jan and Dave never let you cook."_

_"Oh come off it. My mommy does too let me cook."_

_"Greg. The only thing you _can_ cook is Ramen."_

_"I can make toast."_

_"Yes. Your burnt toast always makes my mornings - or should I say late nights - when it _burns_ at _four_ in the _morning_, setting off the fire alarm when I'm halfway through sleepin' on my day off."_

_Greg scowled. "I couldn't get it out of the oven."_

_"That's why you put _toast_ in the toaster, genius. Not the oven."_

_"You mixed up your subject and object there, jocko."_

_Nick rolled his eyes at the pitifully attempted diversion._

_"Also, I can't put it in the toaster with cheese already on it."_

_Nick shook his head, stifling a chuckle at Greg's antics. "You're a piece of work, man."_

_"It's not my fault it fell!" _

_"Well your mommy told _me_ to watch out for anything you bake. The first time I met her, she sat me down, leaned in, and she said, 'Now Nicky –'"_

_Catherine could see Greg utilizing his puppy dog eyes on this one. _

_This was always when the argument ended - and when Greg won.  
_

_Glancing down at her watch, she realized time was ticking as she listened to the pair. _

_She knocked on the door, and saw Nick jump slightly at the surprise. _

_"Cath," Greg said, looking up. "About time you showed up. Warrick was keeping you busy, I assume?" he asked with a smirk. _

_Nick hit him lightly on the head, and rolled his eyes. Warrick and Catherine had been working a scene out in the desert together when Catherine was called in to the casino instead._

_"Ow!" Greg said, faking pain._

_"For your information, Gregory Hojem Sanders -" Catherine started._

_"Oh, now I know I'm in for a talk down. Usin' my full name now, Cath?"_

_"Yes, Sanders, I am," she replied with a smirk._

_She almost missed the puzzling look of gratitude from Nick to Greg.  
_

**

* * *

**Catherine nodded into the phone before hearing the dial tone. No matter how many social skills Sara taught him, Grissom would never be one for polite formalities. Catherine chuckled dryly at the prospect of Sara Sidle teaching anyone else the art of social skills.

Her chuckling ended when the topic of the phone conversation forced itself back into her head. She gently closed her cell phone and silently reached for the steering wheel, biting her lip in some combination of chagrin and exhaustion. As if on autopilot, she set her foot down on the gas again and followed familiar road lines through the light late afternoon traffic.

Other cars - pimped-out Mercedes and rickety 70's Chevys - were driving side-by-side, as was quintessentially Vegas, but she hardly noticed the whir of colors surrounding her. She drove by like a zombie, because all that her mind was willing to see was that same miserable night.

A car behind her honked. Normally, she would have flicked the driver off. These days, with the significant deficit in personnel on grave shift, she spent most of her driving time in a county-owned Denali, complete with sirens. Many people seemed to think that driving such a vehicle made it more necessary to behave in a polite, good-standard-setting manner. Catherine Willows saw it as an extra reason to flick people off. No obnoxious civilian driver was going to tell her how to drive. In the Denali, she _was_ the law. Or something like that. The flashing lights that normally rested above her gave her legitimacy, and it was a mighty stupid driver that would complain.

Staring down at the speedometer, however, she realized that this particular driver had a point. She was going 20 on a 40mph road. Recognizing her own distraction, she swerved onto the shoulder, hoping she'd only need a few moments to get herself together.

* * *

_Catherine was at home in the casino. After all, she had grown up around them. Sam Braun, even if Catherine hadn't known it then, had been her father, even before she'd known, had always been a significant figure in her life. _

_The inside of the room being dusted was not one unfamiliar to her. She remembered vaguely an old tryst with the son of another casino magnate - one Sam hadn't approved of - taking place, if not in this room, then in one nearby. The Supremes had set the stage for that 1978 tryst with the sweet chords of 'Reflections' ringing on in the background. _

_With that memory in mind - the sweet tingle of lips, soft, young skin and the restlessness and optimism of youth - Catherine couldn't help but hum along lightly as she dusted for prints.  
_

_"Way to go, Aretha! You still got it!"_

_Catherine couldn't help but chuckle at Greg's unquenchable exuberance. He would always be a child at heart, she thought, chuckling as she dusted the darkening golden floor. The floor was tiled and had aged with grace. _

_"Do you think Lily used to change here?" Greg asked. _

_Catherine chuckled at the thought of her mother as a showgirl diva, rushing off between acts to sneak in time with Sam. Catherine was stuck between disgusted and amused that she and her mother might have made out in the same room. _

_"I wouldn't be surprised," she said with a chuckle. "I know _I_ probably did."_

_Greg raised an eyebrow, looking up intently. "But you never worked here, I thought. I thought you worked the French Palace?"_

_Catherine chuckled, knowingly. "Doesn't mean I didn't spend quality time in the backrooms of the Tangiers."_

_Greg laughed. "Sam must have had quite a time with _that_."_

_"Eh. He couldn't complain, seeing as he hadn't exactly been playing 'daddy.'"_

_"Especially if Lily was doing the same thing?"_

_Catherine chuckled again. "It's a bit odd to hear you referring to my mother by her first name, Greg."_

_"Well, I've been interviewing her a lot for my book. She comes up plenty in it, or at least the draft I have done right now. And I can't exactly refer to her as 'my lovely coworker Catherine Willows' mother.'"_

_"Yeah," Catherine said, still chuckling - she spent a lot of time laughing around Greg, at least when he was in his happy, enthusiastic mood. "She might be offended by the connotations about her age."_

_"I hate to break it to you, Cath, or rather to your mother, but a lot of the book is about the 40s and 50s. So I think any reader will figure out that she's not a young and chipper 20."_

_Catherine nodded, still chuckling.  
_

_"Then again," Greg continued. "Lily Flynn still seems young and chipper at heart."_

_Catherine sighed, shaking her head. Work was passing quicker with talk of the old glory days of Vegas. With Greg's banter, she could almost picture her mother preparing backstage to go on, with Sam clapping in the front row. Except now she pictured Greg there too, carefully writing down the details._

_"This is kind of weird, though," Nick suddenly announced. "You're talkin' about her _mom_, Greg. Don't you think that's a tad bit wrong?"  
_

_Greg sighed. "Okay. Topic change. What do you suggest, Cowboy?" _

_Nick shot Greg a warning glance. _

_Catherine picked up the slack. "This case is a joke."_

_Nick looked up baffled, though Greg's look read of understanding._

_"What makes you say that?" Nick asked._

_"Because Cath is a funny person," Greg replied, matter-of-factly. Nick rolled his eyes again._

_"Thanks for the flattery," Catherine said with a wink._

_"Well, no denying the truth. But you owe me one." Greg winked, with more exaggeration, back._

_Catherine chuckled yet again. "Sure thing. And _you wish_," she laughed, shaking her head at Greg's goofy forwardness._

_Nick sighed heavily._

_Catherine could see the wheels turning in Nick's head. What about she had little idea. The Texan had always had that aptitude for getting lost somewhere else. Sometimes it was super-focus... and sometimes it was just annoying. _

_Nick shook his head, in response to some debate waging in his mind. _

_"Nick?" Catherine seemed to pick up on his distraction. "You either think something different about the case, or you think I'm not funny," she said. "I sincerely hope it's the former... Or you're just stuck in a big hole of Texan thought."_

_Greg stifled a chuckle. _

_"Um... nah, your humor's fine, Cath. I mean, at your age, there's only so many jokes you could tell."_

_Catherine pouted, though her eyebrow was still raised, indicating that she did in fact catch the humor. _

_"So it's the case?" Greg, Catherine could see, had caught Nick distracted again._

_"Yeah. I mean, why is it a joke?" Nick looked up curiously._

_"Politics," Catherine and Greg said, almost in sync, with Greg answering only a millisecond before Catherine. "See," he said, turning to Catherine, with the flirtatious cheese obviously turned on. "We, my French Palace dearie, are _obviously_ of the same kind." He wiggled his eyebrows and Catherine laughed again. _

_"You're such a flirt," Nick said, shaking his head at Greg with a smile. _

_"_Anyways,"_ Nick said, clearing his throat. "What do you mean by politics?"_

_"Think about it, Nicky," Greg said. "Why else would Catherine be stuck on this case?"_

_"Ah." It dawned on Nick. "This used to be Catherine's dad's casino... So this case must be important to the under sheriff or Ecklie then if they need to take the risk of conflict of interest and add a third CSI."_

_"Not even," said Catherine. "The sheriff. New owner of the Tangiers - Mr. Jared - is a big donor."_

_"Ah."_

_"This is ridiculous," Greg scoffed. _

_Nick raised an eyebrow. Greg responded, rolling his eyes at Nick's glare. _

_"I mean, not that I mind your company, Cath. It's just the scene's barely been cleared, and they're already putting more of _us _in here. It doesn't make sense." _

_Nick's glare remained and Greg gave up and continued with his point. _

_"It's just, it endangers everyone when this type of thing happens. Protocol is there for a reason."_

_"But it _is_ politics, Greg. It makes the world go round sometimes."_

_"Yeah, yeah. I understand. It's just frustrating. I mean, you're the big protocol guy - the _bureaucrat_. I thought _you'd_ have a bigger problem with it." _

_Catherine could see Greg - normally mellow - growing testy, for a reason she couldn't discern. _

_"Nah," Nick replied, with a tone of defeat, almost as if he were conceding something to Greg. "I _do _get your problem with it. It's just hard, I guess."_

_Greg nodded, apparently appeased enough for now. "I know what you mean."_

_Catherine looked at the two questioningly. She sighed. "Well whatever happens, happens. We're stuck here, on this case. It's always the sheriff's case, ultimately." _

_Greg nodded in acquiescence. "At least it's a cool place. And Nick- Nick and I" - He paused, apparently close to calling Nick something else - "would probably have ended up working this case whether or not politics was involved. This way, we get a head start and the help of an expert," he said, excitement growing in his voice. "And we hopefully get a little history lesson from said expert on one or more back rooms of one of the stalwart icons of Vegas lore."_

**

* * *

**A few moments passed, and Catherine realized that she was still not moving.

Twenty minutes had passed on the dashboard clock in front of her. The sky had grown a shade darker, as heavy granite clouds nudged forward, approaching the haze above her car.

Twenty minutes gone and forgotten on the highway.

Lindsey had most likely spent another twenty minutes on wasting time. Wasting time seemed to be Lindsey's chief preoccupation. So no change there, in the last twenty minutes.

Grissom, most likely, was sitting in his office, avoiding paperwork, as he likely had been doing twenty minutes prior. Catherine smiled at the knowledge that she was not the only person lost in time.

Twenty minutes later, Catherine still needed to get home. So did Greg, but that would never happen. How much could really change in twenty minutes?

**

* * *

**_"Do you think there might be any secret passageways here?" Greg asked, raising eyebrows excitedly. "Maybe that's where the bulk of the fight took place."_

_"That's possible," Nick responded. "Catherine?"_

_She looked up._

_Nick continued. "You probably know this place better than we do."_

_Catherine chuckled. "You don't know the half of it. Although I'm sure Dr. Sanders might be coming close about now."_

_"I'm honored that you might think so," Greg said, beaming._

_"I'll go check for more rooms. Greggo - you wanna help?" she asked. _

_"Sure thing!" he replied, still enthusiastic._

_Catherine looked around the room for any obvious secret passageways. Then again, she thought, secret passageways weren't supposed to be obvious. Finally, she found something - a door hidden behind an old wardrobe._

_The room was dark. Judging by the clothes and other items strewn across the floor, it looked to be a popular spot for employees to dump things. She could make out clothes, curled and rumpled haphazardly. _

_Catherine started looking through the items, mostly old clothes, piled on the ground. _

_She even recognized one similar to the leotard her mother, Lily Flynn, had worn during her days at the Rampart. _

_A silver ring on the ground looked to have belonged to one of the head honchos, and, judging by the insignia, could very well have been Gus 'Da Beauty' Finkle's. _

_In the right-hand corner of the room, facing her, were newer looking items, judging by the more modern cuts and relative lack of dust. A shattered old Margarita glass laid next to it, along with what looked to be a disintegrating lime peel. Though she knew it probably held nothing useful, she walked over to bag the lime and the pieces of glass closest to the rim - the ones from which she could more likely extract DNA. _

_She turned around again, looking to an even older showgirl uniform. Judging by the more conservative cut and fading ruby coloring, it looked to be decades old. Real rubies encrusted on the waist were the only items not yet fading or rusty. Looking more closely, though, she realized one ruby was missing. She reached down to bag the uniform as well. A robber - or thieving employee that chanced upon the room - could have easily been the one to pry the missing ruby from the waistband.  
_

What a piece of Vegas history,_ she thought, upon surveying the room yet again. Feeling a sudden burst of benevolence - and Greg's enthusiasm spreading like Christmas cheer - she called out. "Hey, Greggo! I think I found something you'll like!"_

_"Who's Greggo?" asked one of the newer looking rumpled piles of clothes._

_The next thing she heard was a gunshot. She felt the vibrations of her walkie-talkie as she reached for the sudden pain in her left shoulder._

_She vaguely registered masked figures filtering into the room._

**

* * *

**Catherine didn't bother looking at the clock on the dashboard again. Time would pass at its own rate, by its own standards. She was not one to control it, as much as she would have liked to.

She stared down at the phone again, banishing the memories of a gruesome time, its brutality exacerbated by the minute.

Time ticked slowly and she didn't forget.

Impersonal politics cut knives through the case, which itself was all but impersonal.

Sitting on the side of the road, phone clutched angrily in hand, Catherine cried and remembered, letting another twenty minutes slip over her, unheeded and ignored.

* * *

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **Thanks so much for reading! This story really is my baby. I've been working on it since around August, but, after many re-writes and (finally) having finished the first 18 chapters to my (relative) satisfaction, I decided it's finally ready to be published. I can promise that updates will generally come daily or every other day. Please review! I generally try to review stories of everyone who reviews my stories, as an extra incentive.

~Harper


	2. La Cangura

.................................

_Salvar: to save, to overcome, to preserve, to rescue, to cover, to pass_

_Salvarse: to survive, to escape_

.................................

Timeline: Season 8 (Sara is in Frisco, Warrick is divorced and alive, and Wendy is set on becoming a CSI)

Disclaimer: If I owned it, Greg would get more screentime, Warrick wouldn't be dead, Yo!Bling would be canon and Standers would get wayy more subtext. Insert other conditionals here.

Author's Note:I know that there is a lot of Catherine in the last chapter, and plenty in this one. To all the Nick and Greg fans, I **promise** there will be a **lot** more Nick and Greg to come. Just hold on. This chapter is very important to the rest of the story. Muchas gracias a SuzSeb, Marifw, moochiecat, Triden, Peggy_Schultz and atticus for reviews on the last chapter. This week's been crazy stressful, but you guys' reviews made my night (and early morning). To Marifw's question... well, you'll just have to wait and see ;) To Peggy_Schultz, I'll just say that nothing is as it seems. ;) Major thanks to LaughableBlackStorm for continued beta.

The title, 'La Cangura' means 'The Babysitter' in Spanish.

* * *

LA CANGURA

At 13, Catherine had not been a natural babysitter. Her personality type was always geared toward more intense, social endeavors. To be honest, small children had annoyed her at that age. In her free time, she had much preferred the joys of roaming clubs, doing nails and necking whichever older boy was her flavor of the week that given day.

If she recalled correctly, the flavor of the week that week had been Harrison DuPree, a high-schooler from up the block.

The idea of playing with toy trucks alongside a kindergartner was less than what she had in mind. Nonetheless, Tam Jared quickly won her over. Or, rather, 'Owen Tommas Jawed,' as he most often introduced himself, quickly won her over. He was a precocious child if ever she saw one.

His personality was exuberant and flamboyant, even as his presentation was, at least for a five-year-old, quite flawless. His auburn hair was combed neatly into rows, and he had a habit that Catherine normally only associated with angsty or ditzy teenage girls -- twirling what little hair he had around his fingers.

Mr. Jared, a close associate of Sam Braun's, had been looking for a babysitter, and Catherine had been a logical choice.

**

* * *

**

1971

_"I is Tammie." Auburn hair gave way to a friendly smile peering up at thirteen-year-old Catherine Flynn. Dark chestnut eyes beamed at her._

_She couldn't help but smile back._

_Bruce Jared cleared his throat. "We went over this, Owen. Your name is Owen."_

_"No," said the little boy, scowling. "I is pwaying pwetend wight now. So I is Tammie." He pointed to a worn looking poster of a recently departed songstress. "Wike her."_

_Mr. Jared rolled his eyes._

_"I'll be back at 11," Mr. Jared said, directing his gaze back toward Catherine. "I have a meeting with Sam," he said, as if knowing Catherine, wise beyond her years already, would understand the meaning of this. Catherine nodded._

_Mr. Jared shot a last warning stare at the impish five-year-old before walking out the door._

_The door shut, and Catherine barely heard the light, quick footsteps darting towards her before she felt a small, warm hand snatch hers, with the small amount of strength it could muster._

_She looked down to see a five-megahertz smile, only obstructed by two missing teeth, both to the right, on his top jaw. "Wanna pway?"_

_"Sure, Owen."_

_He scowled. The teenager tried not to giggle at the adorable little glare that looked as if it were out of some comical Hallmark card._

_"My name not Owen. Is Tammie."_

_"Tammie? So who calls you that?" she asked cautiously, but curiously._

_His little scowl deepened and this time Catherine could not resist chuckling._

_"Whas so funny?" he asked, attention immediately diverted._

_She held back a lighter laugh. "Nothing."_

_His expression lightened and he beamed up at Catherine once again._

_"So what do people normally call you?"_

_"My fwiend Bobby calls me Tam. Is not Tammie -- he says it is not a girly name, but is not Owen either."_

_"How come you don't like the name Owen?"_

_"Is icky," was the only response she got. Catherine stifled another laugh at the simple response. "Awso, Owen is Sam Braun. He owens da ksino."_

_Catherine chuckled, realizing what the boy meant to say. "You means he _owns_ it?" she asked._

_"Isn't dat what I said?"_

_Catherine chuckled again, resisting the urge to try and explain it to the boy. "So, _Tam_, what do you want to play?"_

_"Hmm." He furrowed his brow again. "Kitkat and Baba want to pway."_

_"Do they?" Catherine asked. _

_Her question wasn't answered, however, as Tam darted up the stairs. He returned immediately with two worn-looking stuffed animals. _

_"What ith yaw name?"_

_"My name?" Catherine asked, leaning down with a grin to speak to the small child._

_Tam giggled. "Yeth! Of courth, your name! Baba wasn't asking Kitkat!"_

_Catherine, once again, couldn't help but smile warmly back. "I'm Catherine."_

_"Katwin," Tam repeated, nodding in concentration. "Mmkay." He turned to the stuffed animals, bringing a small blue cat out, and almost hitting Catherine in the head with it. "Kitkat, meet Katwin." He turned back to Catherine. "Katwin, meet Kitkat."_

_"Hi Kitkat," Catherine said, still hunched over to stay on Tam's eye level and smile at the worn, purple stuffed dog now in front of her. One of the dog's ears was falling apart, and his nose had long lost its pinkness. She could tell it was a loved stuffed animal. _

_She thought she was doing a decent job so far, so Tam's scowl came as unexpected. _

_"Dat's not Kitkat. Dat's Baba. You hasn't been intwoduked yet."_

_"Ah," Catherine replied, nodding at the blue cat. "It's nice to meet you too, Baba."_

_Tam replied for Baba. "Baba is gwad to meet you toos, Katwin."_

_"Well," Catherine said, doing her best imitation of Lily Flynn's classy friends. "I'm pleased to meet you too, Baba."_

_Tam giggled._

_Catherine smiled. "What's so funny?"_

_Tam leaned in to whisper into her ear. "Dey wike you too."_

_"Aw, thanks," Catherine said, smiling yet again. The boy was adorable._

_"Dey's my best fwiends."_

_"Are they? How long have you three been friends?"_

_"Foweveh."_

_"Forever, huh?"_

_"Dat's how long wove and fwiendship aw supposed to be, wight?"_

_Catherine was taken aback by the comment. She had never quite considered it that way, or that much. In Vegas, love was always fleeting. Even at her age, she could sense a connection between her mother and Sam Braun -- one that had probably used to have been love, but certainly no longer was. The only true love she ever saw was that of money. _

_From what she had seen, man's -- and woman's -- love of money was unquenchable. _

_She stared down with mirth at the boy, hoping he retained the ability to truly love. _

_She wondered if it was even possible in the given day and age. She had seen her mother, and her mother's "friends," and virtually all around her, go through phases of love, romance and friendship, but, in the end, all died out. Even parents' love wore out eventually, as she'd seen in all the fleeing fathers of various friends. Love and friendship meant little to Catherine Flynn, even at thirteen._

_"Wight?"_

_Catherine paused for a moment, before forcing a smile at the small, innocent boy staring up at her, searching her face for an answer with an expression far too old for his years. She wouldn't spoil the poor kid's delusions just yet. That was time's job only. Hopefully, he would get a few years more of such delusions before the usual wave of cynicism hit. _

_"Right."_

_He stared back up with a smile, one that had so much friendship and love yet to give to the world that would rush to meet him._

* * *

PRESENT

Catherine looked around carefully, grateful that the Lab had been largely deserted. She peered over her shoulder at lab techs immersed in work.

Nick was reviewing a folder of evidence, as he'd been doing for the past hour. Wendy was out on her first proficiency, with Warrick overseeing her work. Wendy was going to be a great CSI; Catherine could tell.

Catherine knew she herself should, hypothetically, still be off the clock. Which meant she had time for what she really needed to do.

All she could see in her mind was the sorrow in Nick's eyes that night and every night after, whenever he dropped his guard. She knew she had to do something, no matter how limited the possibilities, to make it better for him.

The sheriff had already given up on getting Greg closure, but that didn't mean Catherine couldn't try. Even if the scene itself was inaccessible to her, she knew something no one else -- probably not even the Feds -- knew. If she couldn't find Greg's corpse, she could at least find out why he was killed.

Strolling the aisles, she finally found the box. Fortunately for her, the case she had in mind had remained under the watch of LVPD, not the Feds, most likely because of the Jareds' connections to the city and all aspects of the municipal bureaucracy. Reaching through the boxes of cold cases, she pulled out the file. She was relieved that it wasn't ridden with rodent bite marks after all these years.

_Jared, Owen "Tam" Thomas; DOD 9/9/1985_

Checking around her and hiding the box under her jacket, she hurried home.

Tam Jared had died still believing in love.

* * *

Wendy Simms stared down intently at the floorboard.

It was polished, but had clearly been worn down over at least a decade. Its shiny mahogany finish reflected the shadows cast by a dresser and bed, the only other items in the room.

The dresser was also weathered by the years. The second handle, on the right side, was missing. Judging by the cracking wood surrounding the space vacated by the handle, it looked to have been yanked out with force. Wendy took a step closer. She glanced down at the floor. No handle.

_Hmmm... where could it be?_

She opened the drawer underneath it and found her answer, along with the murder weapon covered in blood.

She carefully bagged both, crossing her fingers that there would be fingerprints on at least one of the items. Her predecessor had taught her the art of superstition. He had said his grandma, Nana Olaf, was a psychic.

She sighed.

_Greg._ If it weren't for him, she wouldn't even have this job, or at least the opportunity to get it. Without him, there wouldn't have even been a vacancy for the DNA technician spot. The other available job for a CSI had been Sara's -- not for a CSI 1.

She sighed again. How eerie it was that she was replacing Greg yet again. But there was no comparison between the two replacements -- one had been prompted by Greg's departure into the field, the other by his departure into... nowhere.

It was so weird, to be entering the field under these circumstances. She'd expected it to be a celebration. But this was no cause for celebration. It almost made her second-guess her decision. But, at the same time, she knew Greg wouldn't want her to give up on her dreams because of his death. They hadn't even been that close, but she knew Greg wasn't the kind of guy that would want his death to prompt sadness. Then again, sadness _was_ all it prompted.

It would have been one thing if Greg had died of a heart attack, but the _way_ he had died -- bleeding in the arms of his best friend, as Catherine and the vicious perps looked on, before being dragged out, alone, into the parking lot of the casino and shot, execution style, leaving Nick and Catherine with memories they dared not share -- that was no cause for anything but sorrow.

She willed her thoughts away from Greg, and sighed. She wouldn't need celebration if -- _when --_ she finished her proficiencies.

She heard a sneeze behind her.

"Bless you."

"Eh, thanks. Sure is dusty in here," Warrick said, sniffling.

"You're telling _me_. I've been in this room for the last hour."

"Hey, that's the job," Warrick said, smiling. "Wouldn't expect anything less from a good CSI --"

"You mean from Greg?"

They both cringed.

"Sorry," she quickly said.

"It's not your fault. No worries. It's rough living up to someone's shadow."

Wendy nodded, thankful to be understood. She'd been living in Greg's shadow for long enough already. Glancing at her watch, she stared back at Warrick. "Don't you have a date?"

Warrick looked at his own watch – or, rather, scowled at it. "Yeah. Maybe."

"Maybe?"

"Yes," he conceded.

"Shouldn't you be heading out then?"

"And leave you here by yourself? Nuh uh."

Wendy raised an eyebrow. "I don't need protection, or help... I mean -- no offense -- it's just I don't want you to miss your date because I'm taking forever at a crime scene."

"That's sweet, but no. I'm fine. I don't leave rookies at crime scenes by themselves," he replied, adding quietly, "At least not anymore."

Wendy nodded. "Holly Gribbs?"

Wendy had heard through the infamous lab rat grapevine of the move that had almost gotten Warrick fired eight years ago, and the young CSI that had died on the operating table, largely as a result of his mistake.

Warrick nodded back somberly. "Yup." Trying to alleviate the mood, he added, "And you're not even taking forever at this crime scene. Not movin' any faster than the average CSI. This job is about bein' careful, not about rushin' through things. You don't want to miss any evidence."

"Sure."

"Now I'll stop distracting you, as I can see you've got somethin' there," he said, looking down meaningfully.

"The knife?"

"Well, yeah. That's good too. But that's easy. I was referring to the hair you were looking at."

_The hair. I was looking at... Huh?_

Wendy looked down, spotting a thick blond hair blending in somehow with the mahogany floorboards.

"The hair," she said, smiling back at Warrick appreciatively and reaching for her tweezers. "Thanks, Warrick."

"No problem, kiddo."

A ringing phone interrupted their heart-to-heart. Warrick reached into his pocket and stared at the screen of his phone, rolling his eyes. He moved for the closet, opening it and inspecting it, before closing it again.

"What are you doing?"

"I've gotta go take this phone call somewhere else. It's personal."

Wendy nodded, understanding that much. "I meant the closet."

Warrick grunted, knowing that's what she had meant. "Just wanna check before I leave. Double-check. That there's no suspect left here."

"Ah." _Though that _is_ what the police that cleared the scene were for..._

She watched as Warrick glanced under the small bed in the middle of the room. When he reached for the dresser, Wendy knew he had done enough.

"Warrick." She reached for his hand. "They can't hide in a dresser. It's too small. There are drawers. Unless you can divide yourself into four drawer-sized pieces, or you're small enough to fit into _one _of those -- in which case you'd be a midget and I think I'd be able to still win a fight with you -- then I don't think I, or you, have anything to worry about."

Warrick released the drawer reluctantly and slapped off his latex gloves, reached for the phone -- which had long past stopped ringing -- and walked out of the room.

Wendy reached for the hair, at last, with the tweezers she'd finally fished out of the kit. Grissom had lent her Sara's old kit until she became a CSI and got her own.

She squinted at the hair as she reached down. She had thought that, if there was anything she'd be prepared for after DNA, it would be picking up pieces of hair with tweezers. Yet the stupid thing fell out of her tweezers.

_Stupid resistant blond hair._ She'd always hated blonds. Not all blonds. Sofia Curtis, who'd worked on graveyard for a while, had been perfectly pleasant. Then again, she'd been a dirty blonde. Greg had been a blond, but it seemed to be entirely the work of dye. She laughed to herself at the memories of Greg's many hilarious hairstyles.

Wendy chided herself for her rather fickle, and definitely superficial, prejudice. She hadn't hated blonds until her boyfriend during her freshman year of college had cheated on her with a blonde. _Lacey, Lindsay... something like that_, Wendy thought, struggling for the name. She had just called her "Bimbo Barbie" as she threw a thong at the girl and slammed the door.

Wendy grimaced at the unfortunate memory. Remembering the task at hand, she hoped that Warrick's love life was going better than hers.

_I guess not_, she thought with a sad smirk. Focusing in on any sign from a nearby room as to how Warrick's phone call was going, she could make out the sound of arguing.

"Come on, Amy! I told you I couldn't promise. … No -- no. That's what I said. I _said_ my work was likely to get in the way. … I can't just leave a crime scene! … Amy," he said, sounding as if he were trying to calm down. "I told you when we started dating that my schedule is. Defined. By. My. Job. I can't change that. When I've got a case, I've got a case. … Sorry. … Fine. … I guess it's gotta be this way. … Bye, Amy. … Okay, I won't be callin' ya again. … Yes, this is goodbye."

Wendy's guilt grew with every word, and she wasn't sure whether to be relieved or not when the conversation ended. She prayed something would get better in that conversation. She didn't want her slowness at the crime scene to be the cause of Warrick breaking up with his girlfriend. Fortunately, her prayers were answered.

"Fine. I'll be there. … Yeah. I'll check with Cath. … No -- no! Cath and I are just --" Warrick heaved a frustrated sigh. "I'm calling my female _colleague, _who is going to come take over for me at the _scene_. She's one of my coworkers, and _you_ need to deal with it."

Wendy could tell Warrick had had this conversation before. He and Catherine had always been close -- there were always rumors going around about the two of them -- and she could understand why Warrick's girlfriend would see Catherine as a major threat. The redhead was a former stripper, and still had the body, but way more charm.

She could hear Warrick hanging up, and got back to work as he headed back down the hallway. He didn't seem to notice the little progress she'd made since his exit.

"I'm gonna call Cath and see if she can cover for me here."

"Lady troubles?"

Warrick raised his eyebrows in frustration, as if trying to clear his head. "Yup."

"You could also ask Nick. I'm pretty sure he's already finished his case."

_Of course he has_, Warrick thought, almost in awe. In the last month, Nick barely seemed to leave the lab. His clearance rate was pushing into uncharted waters of success. On the other hand, though, he wasn't the person Warrick would have mentoring Wendy. All the sleep deprivation seemed to have deprived Nick of all social skills.

Wendy nodded. "You sure you don't want to leave now?"

"Nah. I'll wait for Cath to get here," he said as he reached for his phone again.

* * *

_1976_

_Catherine tried not to roll her eyes at the repetitive interrogations._

_"How's school going?"_

"How_ old are you now?"_

_"I remember when you were still in diapers!"_

_"My, my, what a pretty girl you're growing into!" That one, of course, had come from one of Sam's more drunk Christmas party guests. If Sam had heard the comment, that particular guest would have been out of the house in an instant. _

_Nonetheless, the most amusing had been the cheek-pinching ex-showgirl. Showgirl make-up had always been extreme, which was one of the many reasons it was unwise to keep up the showgirl act years later, when one's hands and eyes weren't quite as steady and discerning. Bertha Torrence was very much an example of this. Her eyebrows -- a dull scarlet which contrasted sharply with her hair, which was now dyed platinum -- were drawn on shakily, with drops and rises like a graph._

_She leaned up to pinch Catherine's cheeks, a gesture Cath found particularly ironic, given the height difference and the connotations belied in the age-old act of cheek-pinching. Nonetheless, Catherine took it with grace, poise and a humorous smile. _

_That was, of course, the moment that Tam interceded. "Aw, come on, Bertie. Leave poor Cath alone!" His smile was so winsome and his bubbly personality so inherently genuine that even Bertha couldn't take offense. _

_"Okay then," she replied sheepishly. "I'll leave Lily's girl" -- as she always called Catherine -- "to enjoy the company of you silly young folks."_

_"Well, I'm only one young folk. And Cath's gettin' up there, ya know?"_

_Bertha couldn't help but laugh as Cath herself rolled her eyes. "Thanks Tam."_

_"No problem," he replied, smile still intact as they walked away. He reached up to pat her head. "You know, Bertie's a pretty cool lady." _

_"Is she now?"_

_"You should hear her stories."_

_"Sure," Catherine said, still unimpressed._

_"That was a lame introduction."_

_Catherine paused her walking to look at him, curiously. "What would the appropriate one be?"_

_The response was not a sentence, or even a word, but an enthusiastic, warm hug. "Catherine! It's so awesome to see you!" The smile in his eyes was real. _

_"You too, kid."_

_He chuckled. "I won't take offense at that." He grabbed her hand, walking faster, no direction clearly in mind. "But how's it been?! How are you?! I haven't seen you in wayy too long!"_

_His enthusiasm, not for the first or last time, lit up Catherine's face. "Pretty darn good. You?"_

_"Hey now. That's not an answer. But fine," he said, rolling his eyes. "I'll go first."_

_They headed upstairs, away from the adults. "Life. is. good," he said, eyes rolling off into blissful day dreams._

_Catherine watched happily as he railed away about the latest project he was working on in art class, and how much he hated gym class, and how his best friends, Gracie and Marta, were going with him to a Frankie Valli concert that he was really excited for. Coming from anyone else, the words and ideas leaving his mouth could easily have turned into a weary list. But, coming out of Tam's, they were a gleeful procession. _

_His head bobbed up and down, his smile so excited and open. He always reminded Catherine of an eager, lovable puppy dog. _

_He calmed down briefly. Catherine jabbed sarcastically. "Is that all?"_

_"Nope," he responded, smile lighting up. He was already dashing down to the stairs in excitement. "But I want to go check out that gingerbread _palace_ downstairs."_

_"Palace, ay?"_

_He nodded eagerly._

_"Well, that make sense. Sam Braun never does anything halfway."_

_He nodded. "This party is amazing."_

_"Or at least the food." Catherine paused for a moment, thinking. "Or, rather, in the words of my mother, 'Sam Braun neva' did nothin' halfway."_

_Tam cracked up at the imitation. "Man, Lily really does sound like that."_

_"Lily, eh? Since when are you calling my _mother_ by her first name?"_

_Tam furrowed his brows. "What am I supposed to call her?" He broke out into a smile. "Probably not mother."_

_Catherine rolled her eyes. "No. I don't know. I haven't given it quite that much thought."_

_Tam merely laughed again._

* * *

PRESENT

"Willows."

"Hey Cath. It's me --"

"Weren't you supposed to be on that date tonight?"

He was always astonished that she kept such good track of things. "Yeah, that's actually what this is about --"

Catherine sighed, but not with annoyance, more just acknowledgement of the situation she had pretty much known would be inevitable. "I'll be over in twenty."

"Thanks. I owe you one."

"Consider it payback for helpin' me out with Nicky earlier today."

"That was just a debt to Nick."

"Well, then consider it payback for _something._"

Warrick chuckled, his mind rolling over the many times they had covered for each other in the last few years. "Sure. See ya there -- err, here."

Catherine chuckled back. "Yep. See ya soon."

* * *

Catherine had just gotten home when she got the call. She was just glad that she had time to put the ziti in first. She had wanted to make her famous Turkey a la Tangiers that night -- it was a good comfort food, and it reminded her of the good old days. It was also a nice treat for Lindsey. But she knew she wasn't going to hold up Warrick's date any longer over a batch of turkey, even if it was with that Amy girl.

Catherine didn't know why she disliked Amy, though her brief interactions with the young woman reminded her too much of Warrick's ex-wife, affectionately dubbed "Yoko" by Greg. "Yoko" really was the nicest name that could have been applied to Tina Brown.

Catherine could feel Amy's suspicious look when they'd met, and she knew that those who were most suspicious of their significant others cheating tended to be the most likely to do it themselves.

And she didn't want to see one of her best friends get his heart broken again. Her other 'best friend' -- if adults could really apply such terms -- Gil Grissom, had already been abandoned by the love of his life, and she wasn't going to see Warrick suffer similarly. Catherine was a tough, strong and independent woman, and she'd been forced on many an occasion to devote her energy to looking after herself solely, but she couldn't help but be protective of her best friends, especially Warrick. Despite his tough exterior -- which she thought spoke more of his years of poker experience than his actual personality -- he was a sensitive soul, and she didn't want to see him go through the ringer again.

_Hell,_ she thought. _Enough of this team is already there. Certainly Nicky... and probably Gil to a lesser extent. And then there's Sara, not even a part of the team anymore... And Greg. _

Her heart broke a little bit every time she thought of Greg, but even more when she thought of Nick. From her own personal experiences, she couldn't help but believe that the person left behind had it the worst. Even with all the suffering Greg had done in his last day -- _And there was a lot of that _-- she still sympathized more with Nick. There were few examples of excruciation that compared to waking up knowing that the person you loved was dead. And she knew she hadn't loved Eddie the way Nick loved Greg. _Hell, we were divorced when he died, _she sighed. She really couldn't even _imagine_ Nick's pain. _What a nightmare. _

She shook her head, finishing pouring the ziti into the boiling water and making her way back into the living room.

"Hey Linds!" She didn't even wait for a response. "Make sure to turn off the ziti when the timer goes off. Okay?"

A muffled noise from the teen crouched over the computer, doing what Cath could only hope was homework, sufficed for a yes.

Her trip out the door was interrupted by a question. "Something to do with Warrick?"

"Yep," Catherine yelled back as she propped open the door.

Checking her watch, she sighed with relief. She was still on schedule to be there within the twenty minutes promised.

She hurried out the door, checking her slick ponytail only briefly in the mirror.

* * *

_1980_

_Tam answered the door himself. Catherine barely had time to speak before she was embraced in a hug. She was surprised to feel almost dwarfed by the quickly growing boy._

_"Catherine!_

_"All right." His tone immediately fell. "I can't believe I still need a babysitter," he said, rolling his eyes sheepishly._

_Catherine chuckled. "Aww. You don't want me here?" she teased, in a babying voice._

_"Please," he replied, rolling his eyes again. "But not that I mind your company of course. You're my favorite babysitter__." He cringed on the last word._

_"I'm your only babysitter, last I checked."_

_Tam glanced around, as if trying to hide something._

_"You've been replacing me?! You had _another_, _different_ babysitter, other than your favorite, Catherine Flynn?!" She feigned hurt, and he cracked quickly, joining in on the laughter. _

_"Okay," he said, raising an eyebrow and taking a forced, overdone air of seriousness. "Can we at least cut the whole 'babysitter' thing?"_

_"Different name?"_

_He nodded._

_"Supervising friend?"_

_"I've always wanted a sister." The genuineness in his eyes and words was apparent. _

_Catherine nodded. _

_"Surrogate sister."_

_Catherine smiled. "Sounds good, kid."_

_Tam beamed back. "Sounds good to me too... sis," he said, pulling up a chair for Catherine, then himself, in the Jareds' expansive living room._

_"So how's it goin'... _bro_?" she asked awkwardly._

_"Okay, so maybe that doesn't work quite as well," he said with a sheepish grin. _

_She nodded, falling back quickly into their laughing ways._

_"Gender roles are stupid anyways." _

_The words were loaded, and would have told Catherine 90 percent of the story had she not figured it out years ago on her own._

_Catherine sensed the change in tone. "So... what's up?"_

_He shook his head._

_"Tam," Catherine said, kneeling down, trying to connect with his lowered gaze. "I'll accept you no matter what. Anyone who really loves you will."_

_Tam gave her a suspicious glance, clearly doubting her words. _

_"What? You really think I'd hate you because you're gay?"_

_Tam flinched at the last word. He looked at Catherine, straight on this time, with a grave, sorrowful look in his eyes._

_"Tam, talk to me."_

_"_Anyone_ who really loves me?"_

_Catherine stared, puzzled. "Yes."_

_"So..." His voice began to waver, and Catherine could see the tears ready to leak out. "Dad just doesn't really..." His voice grew higher, almost squeaking. "He doesn't really love me?"_

_For one of the few times in her life, Catherine Flynn had absolutely no idea what to say._

**

* * *

**PRESENT**  
**

Arriving at the car, Catherine grabbed the box, rushing back into the house and placing her find -- Tam Jared's case file -- under the bed.

**

* * *

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: So... why is Tam important? You'll find out later. The flashbacks from the hostage situation will continue and Tam's significance will be explained. Thanks for your patience! I promise that once everything comes together, it will be worth it :)


	3. El Enigma

_................................._

_Salvar: to save, to overcome, to preserve, to rescue, to cover, to pass_

_Salvarse: to survive, to escape_

_................................._

Timeline: Season 8 (Sara is in Frisco, Warrick is divorced and alive, and Wendy is set on becoming a CSI)

Disclaimer: If I owned it, Greg would get more screentime, Warrick wouldn't be dead, Yo!Bling would be canon and Standers would get wayy more subtext. Insert other conditionals here.

Author's Note: I'm finally home, so up goes the update! There will be a lot more Nick and Greg in this chapter, and part of their secret is revealed. Also, 'enigma' means the same thing in Spanish as it does in English, which is a mystery. Betaed, as always, by LaughableBlackStorm.

As for this chapter...

* * *

**CHAPTER 3: EL ENIGMA**

Wendy was relieved but frustrated to return from the house. She had scarcely made any new discoveries since Catherine's arrival at the crime scene.

On the other hand, Catherine seemed convinced that they had enough evidence to close the case. Wendy knew that there was probably evidence piling up in the DNA lab that she ought to help with.

But the couch called her. She was just so tired.

But she knew she had to keep going. Such was the route to proving herself. Greg had managed DNA and CSI training at the same time. She would too.

Prying herself off the break room couch, she made her way over to the familiar lab.

Fast, heavy footsteps followed her there, and she found evidence in her hand before she even had a chance to sit down.

She looked up, unsurprised at the evidence's source.

"I'll get to it as fast as I can, Nick."

"Thanks." His response was cold and brief.

Wendy felt that she had been doing a good job of incorporating herself into the CSI family, but Nick was the one exception. Somehow, attempted conversations with him always fell flat. She'd been making an effort to befriend the CSI 3, but so far her luck was failing. He seemed even colder than Sara.

But she still had to try.

"So, what's your case?"

"Joanna Constantine. Employee of the local Walmart, off of Green Street. Worked the register on Tuesdays and Thursdays, shelved children's toys on Wednesdays and walked the aisles in customer assistance on Mondays and Fridays. Preferred the aisle walking, and showed up late on occasion. Not super close with any other employees, though she had a good relationship with her grandmother, who lives on Freeman. Didn't date, and her last relationship ended July 12, 2006. He broke up with her because he had to move, and there were minimal hard feelings. Her closest friend at work was Louise Espinoza, 36, 5'2", 130 lbs, mother of two. The aisle she worked showed one set of notable skid marks, probably from a cart going too fast and turning. Espinoza attributed it to two children racing down the aisle, though I'm still trying to verify that with Archie on the surveillance videos, via reflection off of a bicycle..."

Wendy tried to listen, but somehow Nick's description just blended into the whir of CODIS. Wendy knew that her own investigations had been thorough -- Catherine, Warrick and Grissom had all, on separate occasions, told her that she went above and beyond necessary -- but Nick brought a whole new level of detail.

From listening to his description, it sounded like borderline obsession.

She was surprised by the results: Kenny Gerson, age 6.

Apparently, his kindergarten class had filed DNA and fingerprints with the crime lab, as part of a pre-emptive program increasingly used so that children's DNA and prints were on file ahead of time, in case of kidnappings.

Wendy sighed. Kenny Gerson was probably not Nick's murderer.

She handed Nick the results, and he stared down, intently. "Maybe Gerson killed her because she took the last toy he wanted."

Wendy looked up, skeptical, to see that Nick meant that entirely seriously. "Or maybe Gerson was just playing with the cart in the toy aisle," she replied.

Nick nodded, though he didn't look up at her as he rushed out of the room.

Wendy just didn't get it. Nick Stokes was one messed-up enigma.

**

* * *

**

THE CASINO HEIST

_Some obstinate spot, buried in the back of Catherine's brain, was clearly not in agreement with her. A pulsing headache dragged her back into reality, and the warm, wet numbness in her shoulder betrayed a story more treacherous than a hangover. _

_Forcing her eyes open, she glanced around. Dark forms scattered around her vision, and she felt a strange sense of déja vu. The room looked so darn familiar..._

_Her eyes stole passage toward a kit, lying scattered on the ground. _

_The next thing she saw was a gun pointed at her face. _

_"Get up, and do everything we say."_

_She forced her head to nod, even as the room drew speckles and criss-crossing lines that danced circuitously -- and dazedly -- in front of her. _

_A rough hand gripped her shoulder, hoisting her up. _

_"Well now. Ain't she perdy?" This voice came from nearby, though it sounded like it was coming from a smaller body. _

_"Leave her alone." The third voice was solid, and clearly carried weight with it, as indicated when the smaller man backed off. _

_More than that, however, the voice was familiar. She pushed aside the misshapen geometry from her mind, trying to reach back and recall the voice, but it was nothing. Gunshots, even those to the shoulder, made it significantly more difficult to think and recall. All she could think about now was getting out alive. _

_The burly hand of the first voice propped her up, trying to halt her swaying; she tried to comply, still wanting to get out alive. She knew that she needed to help whoever the men were, and to do it quickly. She knew that that made all the difference in hostage crises._

_As she regained her balance, the hands guided her with surprising gentleness forward. _

_When she was pushed to the barely ajar door -- the crack of light revealing Nick and Greg, bantering, per usual -- she remembered where she was and realized what was going on. _

...

_Greg broke his usual calm. "Would you stop being so damn anal-retentive?!"_

_Nick scowled back._

_"It's Catherine, for God's sake."_

_"Don't say God's name in vain," Nick replied, almost instinctively._

_Greg rolled his eyes. "Whatever," he said angrily._

_"We've had this conversation before, Greg."_

_"Greg." Greg looked up, lost in thought, as if pondering over his own name. "It's always 'Greg,' isn't it?"_

_Nick stared at him, confused, looking as if the man across from him had just fallen off his rocker for the last time._

_Greg rolled his eyes again. "Of course you don't get it."_

_"Damn right I don't. I don't get why you're pushing this here, just__ like I don't get your point about your name."_

_"You _know_ what my point about the name is. It's not 'Greggo.' 'Cause that would sound so... what was the word you used? Gay? It would make people think we have nicknames because we're a flaming, homosexual couple. Because we probably spend our free time holding _orgies_ in our backyard." He punctuated his words with bitterly flamboyant hand motions. "Is that right, _Nicky_? _Cowboy_?" His mouth moved up into an unpreventable snarl. "It's not Greggo, and it sure as hell isn't any of the names you say when you're screwing my brains out, is it?"_

_Nick looked up in horror just as Catherine, from behind the door, looked up in shock. Her own thoughts were interrupted by Nick's next words. _

_"I'm just trying to be responsible," Nick said, with recovered calm and a pleading edge. "Please. We can talk about it at home. Right now, I just want to finish this case."_

_"Fine." Greg bent down to study the floor, his expression stoic and unreadable. "Later. I'm just getting tired of faking it."_

_Nick cast Greg a look stuck somewhere between apology and speechlessness. _

_Catherine could hear Greg's words, in a small voice: "And I just want people to know that you love me... if you even do."_

_Nick bit his lip, and he looked tempted to say something. _

_A push to Catherine's back interrupted the loaded silence in the room. _

_"Put your hands up and nobody gets hurt." The calm, familiar voice. Catherine felt a gun pressed up against her head, clearly visible to Nick and Greg as well. _

_"Sorry to break up the lovers' squabble," the smaller man added with a sneer._

_Nick and Greg both gulped noticeably. They would have much more to worry about than Catherine knowing their secret. It was going to be a long night. _

_...  
_

_The four men swarmed into the room as Nick and Greg slowly, still in shock, put their hands up above their heads. _

_Catherine could read Nick as he erected the cool, calm facade he had utilized so well in countless situations on LVPD. _

_Greg, on the other hand, was shaking uncontrollably. The former lab rat had far less opportunities to test his nerve, and the men seemed to pick up on that. _

_"Aw, you all right, Greggo?" the smaller man asked, leering in at Greg. _

_Greg gulped, taking a wavering step backwards. _

_"What's wrong, Greggo? Or would you prefer the names that Nick, as you said, called you when he was 'screwing your brains out?' Was that it?"_

_Greg's eyes narrowed as he stared at the man and drew in a quivering breath. _

_"Speechless already?" The man chuckled before turning away, and Catherine could see the look of relief in Greg's eyes._

_One man -- of average height and athletic, but slim build -- moved behind Catherine, holding her up while simultaneously searching gently for a weapon. _

_The bulkier man -- he was built like a football player, and not just a QB or receiver -- frisked Nick for a weapon. Finding the 9mm, he set it down on the ground after gesturing at the man behind Catherine, who nodded in response. _

_The smaller, ruder man moved toward Greg, apparently about to search him, but Nick intervened._

_"He doesn't carry."_

_The smaller man smirked. "What's your point?"_

_Catherine tried to back Nick up, seeing Greg still speechless and petrified. "He really doesn't."_

_"Leave the kid alone," replied a fourth voice. "Don't you think he would have pulled it out already? He's scared enough that I doubt common sense would mean a lot to him anyways, even with four guns pointed at him."_

_Greg glared, though its effect was greatly outweighed by that of his violent shaking._

_Catherine could feel a concurring nod from the man behind her. "Search him anyways. _Jules_ though." The familiar, slightly Southern twanged voice definitely belonged to the man behind her. _

_The smaller man grumbled and moved out of the way, as a tall, thin man moved toward Greg._

_Greg chewed nervously on his lip as the man frisked him for a weapon. _

_Catherine tried to make eye contact with her younger colleague. When she finally caught his eye, she nodded slightly, imploring him to play unemotional. After two years of stoicism following the beating and, more generally, his move into the field, she knew Greg could do that more than well. _

_The fear in his eyes seemed to evaporate, as Catherine kept eye contact, smiling gently at her colleague. He gulped before smiling back. _

_Nick already seemed to have the drill down; he was glaring off into space. The larger man finished searching and cuffing Nick quickly._

_When the man behind her finally set her down – gently, again -- on the floor, Catherine happily gave in to unconsciousness. _

**

* * *

**

_Nick tried to ignore the contact. It was exactly the kind of thing that made him most uncomfortable. Though he was, as Greg often reminded him, a frequent personal space invader himself, this was different, and decidedly unappreciated. He was grateful that the man behind him, despite his size, seemed to be the gentler of the four, or at least gentler than the smaller man and the taller, skinnier one. He didn't like the way the latter man was taking his time searching Greg. _

_Nick gritted his teeth, trying to find a happy place to escape to, or, at least, to lose himself in planning how to get the three CSIs out unharmed. _

_So far, however, he had nothing. _

_A nervous hiccup from Greg distracted him, as did the chuckle from the smaller robber that followed. _

_He watched Greg avert his gaze, focusing intently on a speck on the wall. He could tell Greg was trying to keep his cool and appear unaffected, but the act wasn't working very well. _

_Nick could read Greg like an open book -- a children's book written in big, block letters and decorated in colorful artwork. He hoped that the robbers couldn't see through the younger CSI as easily._

_Greg shivered, and Nick wanted nothing more than to run at his boyfriend and comfort him -- that or to run up, punch and tackle the tall man behind Greg. _

_Had it been a football game, like back in Nick's A&M days, he would have eagerly blasted through all four men, dodging and faking with keen intuit and speed. Now, however, the move would do no good; he was no longer responsible only for making himself open and free from opponents, but now he had his coworkers to think of as well. Life just had to always get more complicated. _

_"We could use 'em, you know." The words came from the man standing behind Greg. Nick glared at the man, worried about what exactly he meant by 'use.'_

_The man behind Catherine -- he was of a slightly taller-than-average, athletic build, and appeared to be the leader -- nodded his head. "Good thinking." He turned to Greg without moving his own head from behind Catherine's. _

It was almost like he doesn't want Catherine to see his face, even though it is masked_, Nick thought. _

_"You're Crime Scene Investigators, right?"_

_Greg nodded numbly. Once again, his fear was transparent -- too transparent. It had to be sixty or seventy degrees in the casino, and Greg was wearing a long-sleeved shirt, but the younger CSI continued to shiver, rubbing his goose bump-covered arms against each other even as he answered the man's question. _

_"What ranks are you?"_

_Greg looked up puzzled and Nick caught the question for him._

_"I'm level 3 --"_

_Greg seemed to have regained most of his composure, due at least in part, Nick suspected, to barely subtle glances from his boyfriend. "Cath is a CSI 3 also, and in a supervisory role..." He hesitated._

_"And you?" The leader's eyes seemed too intense for Greg's nerves, and the younger CSI averted the gaze with a shiver._

_"I'm level 2. I was late getting into the field because I started off working DNA. I only started working in the field a few years ago, but it's been awesome. Hopefully, I'm going to get my promotion soon." _

_He paused, quirking an eyebrow as he seemed to realize who he was talking to. "If I get out of here, I mean." _

_He paused again, finally staring the man in the eyes. _

_"You know, you really should make sure that we get out of here. I'm s'posed to show my mom my new CSI badge, when I get the promotion, that is. She was freaked out when I went into the field, but now she's cool with it, and I know she and my dad will be really psyched when I tell them about the promotion. If you don't let us out alive, then my mom's probably gonna hafta come kill you. And I don't think you want that. Jan Sanders is a scary lady." _

_Greg paused again, this time for good, and glanced around nervously. He seemed to have -- finally -- realized the extent of his massive over share. _

_Nick had to put all effort into stifling a chuckle. Even in the most desparate of situations, Greg still found ways to be adorable without even trying._

_But Nick cursed himself as he listened to his boyfriend's nerve-induced over share tendencies. It was, for the most part, a tendency that Nick loved -- coming from anyone else, the words and ideas leaving his mouth could easily have turned into a bothersome, weary list. But, coming out of Greg's mouth, over share tended to turn into a gleeful procession. While some people found Greg's occasional nervous chatter annoying, Nick found it endearing. He just had a feeling that the robbers wouldn't. _

_The leader, however, chuckled, and Greg looked up with a winsome smile. _

That's right, Greggo_, Nick thought, shaking his head. _Flirt your way through the hostage situation. _He had always assumed that, should the situation arise, it would be Catherine to employ such a tactic. _

_"We gotta clean up the scene. Right boss?" It was the bigger man -- the one built like a football player or such -- that spoke this time. "That's what they do on TV."_

_"Ohhh." The smaller man's lips formed a small 'o' in realization. "That's what they're for."_

It didn't sound too bad_, Nick thought_, _realizing what the robbers meant -- that the CSIs would clean up the scene, collecting and removing all evidence. _Rather do something close to our jobs than play hostages, though we'll probably end up doing both.

_The leader nodded. "But we can't have all of them do that." He scowled at the smallest man. "Thanks to _somebody's_ decision to shoot."_

_"Sorry Boss." The smaller man again.  
_

_The leader shook his head. "You," he gestured at Nick. "What's your name?"_

_"Nick."_

_"Okay, Nick. Go clean up all the evidence. We're in charge and I don't think a smart guy like you needs to be reminded of why you need to do your absolute best to help us out here."_

_"What about them?"_

_The tall, thin man standing behind Greg looked up. "Well, _Greggo_ here—"he reached over to tousle Greg's hair. Greg shirked away and glared, but couldn't move far. "—will be helpin' her out." He pointed at Catherine. "Gotta keep the bleedin' down, right Boss?"_

_The leader nodded. "Now go. Make it quick, but make it good. I'll know if you mess up."_

_Nick nodded, stealing a last glance at Greg before heading towards the body. He watched the robbers relocate Greg and Catherine to another room. In a way, Nick was grateful to be separated from his colleagues now. The less distractions, the better. _

**

* * *

**

_Greg was relieved when the four men left him and Catherine alone in the room. Apparently, they had some pressing conversation to attend to. _

_Seeing Catherine lying on the ground, arm strewn out in front, he ran to her, feeling guilty for his relief that she was the one lying there, and that Nick was safely processing the scene. Normally, Greg Sanders would have had qualms about using the faded red showgirl uniform -- no doubt a piece of Vegan history -- but in this case, his own pursuits flew out the window as he cleaned the fabric before pressing it to Catherine's shoulder._

_He sighed quietly, looking at his fallen colleague. He chuckled bitterly as he remembered Sara standing over his own battered body a year earlier. Gently, he tucked back a strand of Catherine's hair absent-mindedly, trying to remind himself that she was still there. She looked so peaceful in her sleep. Maybe she could sleep through the whole problem. As he reached for his cell phone, a noise interrupted from the entryway._

_"What do you think you're doin,' kid?!"_

_Greg started, staring over at the largest robber, still mostly concealed by a mask and black clothing. _

_"Drop the phone!"_

_Greg set it down lightly._

_The man growled. "You know what I meant." _

_Greg didn't, but stared up at the scowling man, who gestured with his hands. Compliant, Greg slid the phone across the floor at the waiting robber. Another man -- the smaller one -- rushed into the room, starting at the sight of two investigators at the back. The larger man acknowledged his presence with a friendly nod._

_"Hands behind your back."_

_Greg had no idea how he kept sufficient trace of calm in his voice to even be audible. Leaning over toward Catherine's still body, he gulped. "I need to make sure she stays alive."_

_"Do you now?" The smaller man's smirk shook Greg. It screamed apathy and inhumanity._

_"I can't -- I can't let her die," Greg replied, the fear in his voice rising in trembles. _

_"Why not?"_

_Greg glared, petrified. He hated being put on the spot. It reminded him of his days in the lab dealing with an irate and impatient Grissom. He needed an answer to save Catherine's life. _

_"She – she–" He scrambled, looking to the red fabric now covering her shoulder, as if it could offer an answer. _

_The smaller robber seemed to be laughing mockingly at Greg's logic, but the scarlet showgirl's uniform did in fact give him the answer he needed. _

_"She's Sam Braun's daughter." He sighed as he saw the larger robber's brows rise under the black polyester of his mask. "You don't want to kill her."_

_"You think you know what we want?" The smaller man spoke again this time._

_Greg gulped again, now seeing the new bodies looming behind the two robbers', arms crossed and probably smirking as well._

_"Whatever you want, she can probably help you get it," Greg replied, steeling himself to look at as many of them in the eyes as possible, with resolve. He felt surrounded, and he felt the leers baring into the back of his skull and coating every inch of him and Catherine._

_"You're damn right she can," the smaller robber said, licking his lips. Greg wanted to throw up, but braced himself to argue on his coworker's behalf._

_He steadied himself and concentrated his eyes on the most threatening leer. _

_"If you're trying to get out, you're gonna need her cooperation and help. And if you mess with her, then I wouldn't expect to get that." _

_He continued to stare, eyes fierce, as he forced his own trembling to subside, trying harder than he'd ever done to appear calm and assured._

_The smaller robber chuckled, but another man -- the leader -- turned around, clearly pulling his cohorts to do the same. _

_Greg heaved a sigh of relief as he turned his attention back to Catherine. She was all that could matter now._

_Greg was grateful to have Catherine there, to occupy him. It saved him from thinking on the infinite possibilities ahead of him. She was so steady, so calm in her sleep, despite the bullet that induced it. _She will get through this alive_, he told himself. _

_Saving himself from stress, he listened only to the beating of her heart. It calmed him, even as he sat, alert, hands pressed down over the bullet wound and increasingly slowly oozing blood._

_He sat, poised, over her static body for what seemed like an indefinite amount of time, though even the calming heartbeat could not totally ease his tension._

* * *

PRESENT

Nick Stokes barreled down the hallway, oblivious to Wendy's stares. Wendy could make out a trace of sorrow in his eyes, but it melted away almost as quickly as it had appeared. Nick Stokes was a sad, vacant, focused enigma and _something_ that sad night a month ago had caused it.

* * *

**Author's Note: **Thanks a million to Meg, anymousie, atticus, LostLadyKnight and SE for reviews on the last chapter! I was trying to pack last night, up until the wee hours of the night, and to finish a paper at the same time, and was, consequentially, quite stressed out overall, but, once again, you guys totally made my night. Seriously, I was basically bouncing off the walls at like 3 o'clock in the morning and gushing to my fellow fangirl dorm-hall mates. Thanks so much! Additional props and thanks to LostLadyKnight for catching my mistake in the last chapter - Catherine's maiden name is Flynn, not Willows; hence, she's Catherine _Flynn_ in all scenes with Tam.

One of the issues that I wanted to address in this fic is gender roles within Nick and Greg's relationship. A lot of fics I read tend to paint Nick as Greg's knight in shining armor. While I think that Nick might have a bit of a superhero complex and that Greg often comes across as nervous, I think Greg is more capable of standing up for himself than people give him credit for, and the role of protection in their relationship is definitely one that will be explored further in this fic. We got Nick's perspective on him standing up for Greg in this chapter, but we didn't really get Greg's.

Review if you like it, if you don't like it or if you have anything positive or negative to say about it ;) Constructive criticism is my raisson d'etre (hopefully spelled right).

;)

Harper


	4. Los Mismos Ojos, Part 1

_..._

_Salvar: to save, to overcome, to preserve, to rescue, to cover, to pass_

_Salvarse: to survive, to escape_

_..._

**Author's Note: **'Los Mismos Ojos' translates roughly to 'The Same Eyes' in English. Also, this chapter starts with Catherine, but there will be no shortage of Greg in the rest of it. For clarification, the casino heist took place March 3, 2008. The story itself starts one month later, in early April of 2008. Tam died Sept. 9, 1985. The dates aren't super important; they're more just an fyi (or tmi), and I'll probably be forgetting to include them, yet again, later in the story.

Anyways, the story...

* * *

CHAPTER 4: LOS MISMOS OJOS, PART 1

_1983_

_Catherine shifted on the pole, legs bending and embracing the cool metal in front of her. The trick to dancing - this kind of dancing, as it was - was elegance._

_The chilled steel felt good against her calves, which were barely covered by cream-colored fishnet stockings. _

_She glanced at the crowd, assessing her financial prospects of the night. _

_Hungry eyes peered at her from many angles, all seats running parallel to the platform she walked on. One regular - Steve, a fifty-something factory worker - waved at her, like an old friend. She smiled back, amused at the strange camaraderie that the eager exchange of lust created._

_A less friendly, more salivating smile met her in the seat next to Steve's, where a slightly overweight man in a business suit leered at her with pale eyes. She met his eyes with a challenging raise of the eyebrows._

_A younger, tired looking man with dark brown hair and bright mahogany eyes sat two seats down. He looked to be just old enough to drink, and was staring at one of the worse dancers, Christine, with pure exuberance and surprise - like a boy at Christmas, or like an over-eager teenager about to "do it" for the first time. The excitement and adulation in his eyes told Catherine in less than a second that this was his first time at a strip club, and, quite possibly, his first time seeing the opposite sex in anything less than a full state of attire. This was, of course, before the days of online porn. _

_Behind him, further toward the bar, was a well-proportioned silhouette of a man, sipping what looked to be a margarita. Catherine could barely make out his deep sepia hair, which shone in the light._

_Catherine's gaze drew inwards, stopping at a shorter, middle-aged man with a small grey-brown mustache. His broad shoulders were distinctive, and she smiled with glee._

_Marie - known there only as 'Foxy' - danced next to her, two meters down on the platform. She could see Marie making the move for the man, whom all strippers at the French Palace knew to be one of the big tippers. Marie's bleached blonde hair swayed dangerously over the silicone cleavage spilling out of her scarlet bustier. _

_Catherine scowled, sizing up the competition. She didn't need the tips so much, but she sure wanted them._

_Crisp heels cut into the ground as she drew up from the blue lighting, making her way across the dirty beige platform toward her new opponent. She knew the customers would appreciate a catfight, even one without visible claws bared. _

_She swayed her hips at just the right moment, so that the pleats of her short white skirt flew up on the side for a millisecond, revealing a lacy red thong to the big tipper, a balding man - probably in his late thirties - with greedy eyes that spelled money. _

_Catherine cast an alluring glance at him, and she knew she had him in her trance. She could sense the catch in Marie's throat as the other woman realized her prey had been averted. Catherine smiled with a knowing smirk as Marie was forced to lightly sashay past, over to the right side of the stage, allowing Catherine to make for the kill. _

_Catherine leaned down, showing off her own cleavage to the hungry eyes - and to the pocketbook burning through jeans covering a raging hard-on - in front of her. _

_She embraced the knowledge that she, unlike Marie and the vast majority of her other coworkers, could lean down further, to show off a real, non-plastic burst of cleavage. She could feel the warm sweat of the man's hands on the fifty-dollar bills he placed in her shirt. She smiled - appreciatively, but still with feistiness - before lifting her head. _

_Soft organ steps progressed as the next song broke out. Catherine stepped lightly down the platform, in sync with the song's light beat. _

_An equally light stirring of saxophone joined in, giving way to the sensual, quivering voice and seductive back-up vocals. _

_As the chorus began, Catherine moved toward the center of the platform and let loose._

_Smooth words gave way to sliding keyboard melodies. The words were not only beats, but orders to the eager crowd, who snapped along. _

_The beat carried her, as she moved faster and faster, lost in the music. _

_The crowd slowly assembled in front of her to watch the emotive display, leaving the other dancers in her envy-inducing wake as she thrust her hips into the air, swaying lower and lower. _

_Her humming to the music was lost in the smooth boom of notes, but it didn't matter. She reached nirvana on the dance floor as the neon lights hovered down upon her. Pure bliss._

_The song, as Catherine knew, signaled the end of the night, and thus elicited groans of disappointment from the regulars. Looking out over the crowd that had slowly amassed in front of her over the course of the night - especially during the last song - she was pleasantly surprised to see that the well-proportioned silhouette had made his way out onto the floor, and that his handsome face was equally well-proportioned. _

_It was his smile, however, that caught her off-guard. It was friendly - kind even. Catherine smiled back, with gratitude for the one kind look free of lust. And she was sure she could still find the lust in him, anyways. He was, after all, at a gentleman's club._

_She was hit with a strange burst of cheesy romantic optimism, one that had long ago been lost on the Vegas-raised stripper._

_She smiled to herself as she stepped off the stage, bouncing down with grace. Then she turned her warm smile to the stranger._

_"Hi, I'm Catherine Flynn," she said, reaching out a hand. Forward had always been her style. _

_"Ari Marvin," he said, replying with a more restrained smile and a hand extended with care. At a gentleman's club, he - surprisingly - did in fact play the gentleman._

_"That your real name, or just the one your wife doesn't know about?"_

_He chuckled, rolling his eyes, though the gesture held bemusement rather than rudeness or exasperation. "The former," he replied - revealing a perfect set of straight, white teeth. Catherine was immediately disarmed by the now-wider smile._

_Fainter music poured in through the background, and she was relieved to hear organs again. _This_ was her kind of music. _

_The organs opened with a eulogy for the night and, in the immortal words of the song's craftsman, "this thing called life." His seductive voice began to waft in, and Catherine was struck. _

_The metallic pattering of drums gave way to heavy guitar rifts. _

_Catherine swayed to the beat, but, when the chorus started, she grabbed the hand of the gentleman in front of her. He swung her around with grace. It was not the style of the era, his dance moves; they brought Catherine back to Frankie Valli's better days, the ones Lily Flynn seemed perpetually caught in; the ones of swingin' pop and harmonizing ballads. All that was needed, Catherine thought - lost in the deep blue eyes of the man before her - was a fedora... and a kiss goodnight. _

_His light, swinging steps were, she knew, not those expected as accompaniment to that particular song, but they worked just fine for her. _

_His hands grew moist in hers, as he swung her around again, smiling to the tune. _

_In the heat of the moment, Catherine didn't even register the jealous eyes until her mysterious stranger leaned in to whisper, "I think you've got some admirers."_

_"Don't worry. They're no competition," she whispered back quickly, not ready to lose her dancing partner over customers' leers. She was on her own time now and free of obligations to anyone. And she wanted to dance with Ari Marvin._

_He replied with a troubled look, which left Catherine baffled. _

_"What's wrong?"_

_"I have to go," he replied quietly, a look of regret apparent on his face._

_"Why?" Catherine asked. She was caught off guard by the unanticipated rejection and lost the rhythm in her step and the seduction in her voice. "You sure you don't want to go out?"_

_"Nah." He stepped away as the last line rang, prophetically, giving Catherine one last apologetic glance. _

_Catherine, having totally lost her facade of cool seductress, stared, mouth wide open._

_"What, you married or something?"_

_"I wish," he said smoothly, as he wove towards the door._

_A hand reached out for Catherine. "How come you never give _me_ the time of day? I tip more than he did. And he wasn't even watching you dance!" Jimmy Rosetti, the big tipper of the night, leaned in with the last comment. "And trust me, babe. I watch you good."_

_Catherine scowled._

_"I gave you a Benjamin today! An' you're still not gonna give _me_ anythin'? Not even a dance like that candy ass got?"_

_"Watch your language," Catherine said warily, backing up. It was clear the man was drunk. _

_She looked around for help but was disappointed to see that the manager had already left. _

_She tried not to display her own nervousness at the moment. She remembered as much from hours of self-defense training. She raised a wrist unsteadily, ready to deliver a good poke to his eyes, especially knowing that, while he may be stronger, her quickness was vastly superior, especially given her own sobriety._

_The man reached out to grab her wrist with a surprising show of agility, especially for one so drunk. Catherine succeeded in poking him in the eye, but it only aggravated him more. He twisted her wrist, eliciting a pained cry as she felt a snap. Now she was mad._

_She could feel his other hand creeping over her shirt, and she responded with a knee in the groin, before he could get anywhere. _

_What happened next was a blur. She felt the man lunge. She jumped out of his way, but he continued forward and down. It was then that she realized it was less of a lunge than a fall. _

_It seemed just desserts to see the man he had called a 'candy ass' on top of him, holding down the man's own wrists. _

_She could tell quickly that Ari had probably limited himself to one Margarita. _

_"Aw come on," the panting drunk let out. "You really think your _girlfriend_ won't mind you tryna take me? You perv!"_

_Ari grabbed the man's hair, pulling him up so that they were at least face-to-face. "Now, I'm gonna let you go, having already called the cops with the pay phone out there. It's your choice whether you wanna stick around and wait for them."_

_The man scowled back. "Fine," he mumbled._

_Ari pulled his head up again. "What was that? That a promise?"_

_"Yes. Fine. I'll leave her alone."_

_"Good."_

_"Stupid f**," the man mumbled under his breath._

_Ari merely smiled his charming, full-toothed grin, even as Catherine took offense at the words. _

_The man finally came to his feet, and promptly stumbled over them to the door._

_"Why did you just let him go away, and insult you like that?" Catherine said, as she watched the man stumble into the next taxi._

_"There _is_ no pay phone out there."_

_"I know."_

_"Then why are you asking?"_

_"You know that's not what I meant."_

_Ari looked at her, discerningly, for a moment, before replying. "Sticks and stones may break my bones. But words don't hurt me. At least not anymore."_

_Catherine nodded, puzzling over his words._

_"Your wrist all right?"_

_Catherine looked down at it. There was a purple bruising mark, but it wasn't broken. At worst, it may have been lightly sprained, but that wouldn't get in the way of her getting home or, more importantly, dancing the next night. _

_"Nah, I'm fine."_

_"Well," he began, shuffling to the door with surprising nervousness, given the last smooth display. "I guess I'll see you tomorrow."_

_"Tomorrow?" Catherine responded, betraying more enthusiasm than she would have liked. _

_He chuckled at the eagerness in her voice. "I'm the new bartender," he said before sliding out the door with the same smooth steps she was already adoring._

_Ari Marvin was a puzzle, and one Catherine Flynn anticipated solving. As a stripper, she wasn't used to men playing hard to get. But, as a competitor, she knew she would still get him. _

_Catherine stared, brows furrowed at the man walking out the door, trying to figure him out. She hadn't realized then just how quickly the puzzle would solve itself._

* * *

_THE CASINO- MARCH 3, 2008  
_

_Two men - the smaller, ruder man and the big, burly one - made their way back into the room, prompting Greg to look up from his position, hunched over on his knees and leaning in over Catherine's shoulder. He was relieved to see that the blood was no longer seeping out after around the time that she'd woken briefly. _

_The robbers took a few steps forward. They seemed to be chuckling at the sight of Greg kneeling over Catherine._ They seem to chuckle at everything, _Greg thought hopefully. _With a sense of humor, they can't be that bad.

_"You like being on your knees, boy?" the smaller one asked, smirking._

Okay, maybe they can be that bad,_ Greg thought, quickly losing his optimism and reflexively altering his position. He didn't respond, only staying where he was, next to Catherine. _Chances are they won't mess with either of us anyway. We're not what they came here for.

_He continued to stare at Catherine, trying to allow the still-steady beat of her heart to calm his own and force his mind from the taunting words of the masked men. _

Don't be afraid_, he repeated to himself. _Don't be afraid.

_Searching his mind for better material to ward off the sinking feeling in his stomach, he resurfaced, recalling instructions to "remember the audience in their underwear." _

So what if that advice doesn't fit precisely,_ he thought angrily to himself. There had to be something there, in the more trivial reaches of his mind where he stored the humorous anecdotes and ridiculous information he had seemed to have been known for back in his lab days. He stared more closely at the men in front of them, trying to make them less intimidating in his mind._

_He took a deep breath, blinked once and continued to stare at Catherine. _Play it safe and they'll leave us alone_, he thought to himself. _

_"Well, she's one of the prettiest corpses I've ever seen." The small, ruder one again. _

_Greg looked up, horrified. Of course the statement broke his calm. "She's not dead," he replied simply, cursing himself for stuttering._

_"We could help her along the way," the man responded, meaningfully._

_Greg shuddered. "But you won't. Because she's Sam Braun's daughter." Suddenly, he was growing particularly testy. The stress of the situation was getting to him. "We've been over this."_

_"Have we?" The man leaned down to Greg's eye level. He was probably smirking._

It's ridiculous,_ Greg thought, _to try to convey any significant facial expression when you're wearing that kind of mask - ridiculous, and cocky, and stupid._ He stared back empathically, resisting the tension once again._

_Catherine shifted, groaning, under his hands. _

_"Well, that's a sound we like to hear, isn't it, Biggs?" The smaller man nudged his companion - apparently, and appropriately, named Biggs - in the ribs. _

Geez, they're stupid, _Greg thought in reply. _They're not touching Catherine and they know it. They'd _better _know it. And they've already given away one first name. How do robbers this _stupid_ break into the fuckin' Tangiers of all places? This is ridiculous.

_Only Catherine, as she woke, seemed to notice Greg's internal fuming. Her eyes, as they opened, read 'What's wrong?' loud and clear, even if her voice stayed silent. _

_Greg shook his head, bringing a finger close to his mouth, as subtly as possible. Neither of the masked men seemed to notice, and Catherine instantly closed her eyes and stilled herself. It would be better for all involved - at least all CSI's involved - if Catherine remained asleep, or at least pretended to be so._

_Despite their apparent stupidity, the first one - still nameless - did in fact seem to notice the nonverbal exchange. _

_"Aw, up so soon?" _

_He leered again, and Greg was grateful that Catherine was too out of it to notice. Then again, he thought, she probably was used to leers. Even straight women in LVPD noticed her curves, if for no other reason than envy. _

_Biggs elbowed him in the ribs again, and the shorter man scowled back at his partner. Biggs quickly explained himself to his quizzical and glaring partner. "We're supposed to take care of her when she wakes up," he insisted._

_Greg looked up startled. "Not that way," Biggs strangely reassured the sitting man. "Ar - Our boss says we have to take care of her -" he fumbled for words briefly - "bandage her up and stuff."_

_Greg nodded, still not taking his eyes off of the robber speaking. "You trained in that?"_

_Biggs replied this time. "Mine an' Richie's boss is." _

_He received an elbow in the ribs, this time, no doubt, for giving away his partner's name. _

_"Hey, you did that to me!" he insisted to his partner, who merely scowled in response. _

_It seemed unusual - and foreboding - for the robbers to be so careless about giving out personal information. _They'd only be that way if they didn't expect us - or at least me, since I'm the one awake - to make it out alive, _Greg thought, grimacing. _

_As if on cue, Catherine shifted, no doubt growing restless in her pretend sleep. _

_He sighed, hoping she made it out to see Lindsey again. _

_

* * *

_

_The leader ambled into the room. He was of medium build, though muscular, with strong-looking shoulders. His appearance almost reminded Greg of Nick. "You guys found anythin'?"_

_"Define something_,"_ Richie replied, grinning menacingly down at Greg and Catherine. "'Cause I'd say _this_" - he punctuated the word with a kick to Greg's side - "has to count as something."_

_Greg groaned as the kick pushed him almost toppling over Catherine. He stared ahead at the wall, with the corner of his eye still focused on Catherine. _

_He wanted out, but, in the very least, acting invisible - _ignoring_ the thug - would, or at least _should,_ help. Greg hoped.  
_

_The new man bent down to stare at Greg, who still kept his gaze pointed away. The hand that jutted out to grab his chin took him by surprise. It was cold, even with the black polyester gloves, and strong. It clenched his chin, leaving no room for resistance. Greg could feel the fingernails digging into his skin as the man quickly turned Greg's head around. Altogether, it was too much force for such a gesture._

_Greg glanced down, finding something to stare at other than the man in front of him, but the hand knew its own intentions. When his gaze dove, his chin was pushed up, so the man could still stare grimly into Greg's glaring eyes. Greg tried to keep his expression resolute and apathetic. Dark blue eyes bored into his. Greg furrowed his brow, boring back into the eyes in a staring contest, seeing that the game of gaze averting was of now a lost cause. But he could at least win the staring contest. He could, at least, try not to betray too much fear._

_In the man's gaze, he felt like he was being sized up for market, like a cow, pig or other piece of livestock. He hated it, but he kept staring. The eye before him showed comparable apathy, but hid rage, shock and some other emotion that Greg couldn't pinpoint. _

_Greg stared at the face before him, or at least what he could see of it. He traced the eyelashes - dark, short and spread apart - to the eyes' ends. He saw the lines interspersing and meeting where a deep, stormy ocean's blue melted into a lighter cerulean as his gaze neared the centers of the eyes. The pupils were shiny and of a smaller size, indicating that the man had been in the light for a decent amount of time. _

_That was where his thoughts were cut off - where the eyes shifted, lifting up at the edges. The eyes sneered down at Greg, and Greg shifted his stare on reflex. This time, both hands curled around his cheeks, bringing his whole head to face the man's. The hands were warmer now, and almost shaking. Greg couldn't tell if it was his own trembling causing that, or the man's. _

_A light rumble of laughter hit Greg next. It was almost gentle, but for the remaining smirk. Greg glanced down at the lips, curled up, like the eyes, into a satisfied sneer. Greg tried to turn away again. He could feel the other men's eyes on the pair in the middle of the room - the reluctant tango of eyes, one pair submissive, one dominant - and Greg didn't like it. His face flushed, and his eyes' outer edges descended, revealing his humiliation in the unspoken conversation. He jerked his head, trying to escape._

_One set of fingers fell to his chin again, gripping firmly and holding him in place, while the other bowed further down to skip over his neck lightly. Fingers danced over him, almost in a caress, and he flinched, losing his blank and unfeeling facade in an instant. One lip, now tipped downward, revealed his displeasure and revulsion in the hand's gesture. He glanced away before tugging his head again. Once again, the attempt was futile. _

_The eyes maintained their staring contest even as the mouth opened. "This isn't what I meant. As intriguing as they are."_

_"You gonna have fun right now?" The voice sounded like Richie. Greg gulped, hating the connotations evident in the question. He knew it was no fun involved for him that they had in mind._

_"No." The mouth barely moved with the single syllable, but opened in a small, curt gesture. "We have to get back to work and find the money."_

_The eyes sent strange, paradoxical waves of melancholy, fury and guilt that caught Greg off guard as the hand retreated, leaving Greg to sit over Catherine once more. _

_Greg breathed quickly, trying to push the exchange from his mind. He felt Catherine's hand flutter over his face once fading footsteps revealed that all three men had left the room. _

_"You all right, sweetie?"_

_Even in her position - lying static with a bullet in her shoulder - Catherine still could not turn off the mother hen in her, Greg thought, chuckling lightly. But the context of the situation quickly turned the chuckling bitter. _

_He gave a small nod. _

**

* * *

**

**Author's Note: **Another OC in Cath's past? I know, how cruel. So, why is Ari Marvin and/or Jimmy Rosetti important? Guess away ;) But I promise that there is a connection between the two parts of this chapter. Muchos thanks to Marifw, lostladyknight, longas91, Meg and SE for reviews on the last chapter!

The little white-and-green button calls! -wink wink-

;)

Harper


	5. Los Mismos Ojos, Part 2

_..._

_Salvar: to save, to overcome, to preserve, to rescue, to cover, to pass_

_Salvarse: to survive, to escape_

_..._

Disclaimer: If I owned it, Greg would get more screentime, Warrick wouldn't be dead, Yo!Bling would be canon and Standers would get wayy more subtext. Insert other conditionals here.

Author's Note: Thanks a million to SuzSeb, Meg, CountToEight, longas91, Marifw, atticus and lostladyknight for reviews on the last chapter and to LaughableBlackStorm for beta! Title translates to 'The Same Eyes.' Anyways, enjoy ;)

* * *

CHAPTER 5: LOS MISMOS OJOS, PART 2

_THE CASINO_- _MARCH 3, 2008_

_Catherine drifted in and out of consciousness for what felt like hours as Greg hovered over her, ever watchful, and traded tense quips with the men standing guard over the pair of CSIs. With the pressure applied to the wound, she felt her cognizance growing clearer and fuller. Though she continued to feign unconsciousness, she was fully aware of the heavier footsteps treading into the room, and the exchange that followed, or, at least, as aware as she could have been without opening her eyes and seeing the sinister show of eyes. _

_With her eyes closed for the extended period of time, she felt her ears picking up more and more. Consequentially, it was not lost on her when the harsh, yet quick, footsteps gave way to a body crouching down to grip Greg's face. She could sense the tension and the gradual shifts of positions inherently coinciding with the aural sparring. And she could only guess that it was a battle of the nonverbal, given the extended periods of silence that paralleled the heat radiating from the additional crouched, heavy body._

_But it was the voice that caught her off guard. The voice. _That_ voice. Somehow, through some intangible characteristic she couldn't quite define in the voice, she knew it was him.  
_

_As the figure released Greg's face, Catherine at last ventured a glance up. She had assumed that he would have already turned his head, but, then again, Ari had never been been predictable. _

_She caught his glance as he walked out of the room, and it showed the same melancholy she'd expected, almost hidden under the fierceness she had known so well. _

_Letting loose a fragile tear for the tragic memory, Catherine slipped back into a stupor, falling somewhere between unconsciousness and reminiscence of lovers star-crossed by the fluorescent and fleeting casino lights. _

**

* * *

**

_1983_

_Catherine was happy to escape the French Palace. Many would assume that, since she danced for a living, she would find something else to do with her spare time. But that was far from the case. On her nights off, she was off to the clubs, to dance without worries of offending or pleasing anybody but herself. The only money she had to spend was her own - and that often wasn't even necessary. Many clubs let her in for free. _

_Such was the case at Vivelo that night. It was one of Vegas's less known spots due to its location further off the strip. The dancing inside was gentler - smoother - and the clientele often more svelte and with interests and dancing tastes slightly more off the beaten paths of the 1980's.  
_

_Vivelo was a place of more class than the typical club. Dancing was smooth and sophisticated; there was less grabbing and groping; more Merlot and less Manhattans. Despite the frosty lighting, the walls were etched in a deep scarlet and gilded in a worn gold, lending a greater air of elegance. There was still space between pairs of partners, and groups of happily sipping dancers. The music was lighter and nostalgic for better days, even if the longed-for dates remained intangible. _

_Plush red curtains drew back as she entered and cast a friendly smile at the bouncer, Fred, who had, through frequent encounters, become a fond acquaintance of hers. He smiled back, patting her on the back as she headed in. _

_"Lookin' good, Catherine."_

_"Thanks," she replied, flashing another smile as she descended down the stairs. Soft orange and golden lights cast over the stairs, wafting into the crowd. Pleasant chords of consonance pulsed through the small crowd, each member thoroughly immersed in their own rhythms of dance. Her eyes ran circles around the room, looking for acquaintances. _

_That's when she saw the familiar darkening auburn mop of hair. To her knowledge, he wasn't even old enough to be clubbing. But sure enough, there Tam Jared was. A man fell in front of her, and she lost sight of her young friend. _

_Catherine eased her way into the crowd. She spotted a few familiar faces - other well-informed club hoppers looking for a little more discretion. _

_A tall gentleman in a deep navy tuxedo reached out a hand to the air beside her. She took his hand with equal grace, immediately coming to stare into deep olive eyes. Placing a hand around his shoulder, she let him lead her to the dance floor as he placed a careful hand at her waist._

_Her scarlet gown blended in with the gilded walls, and swayed perfectly against her slim hips. She turned in his arms, letting the pleated ends flutter in her wake. It was a night of bubble gum; Catherine was free to dance away in the arms of a gentleman, free, for the time being, of all troubles and cares. _

_She temporarily pushed thoughts of her young friend from her mind; he had just as much a right as she did to leave the stresses of the day and leave them off of the dance floor. She would leave socializing for later._

_As Frankie Valli finished his serenade to careless, joyous nights, and to Catherine's night, the rhythm of the floor slowed, giving way to the next slow song. The gentleman looked down at her, his kind gaze impeaching her for the next, slow dance. A small smile of agreement set him into soft motion as he glided, arms still around Catherine's waist, back toward the sweeping outskirts of the dance floor._

_Soft, vibrating notes struck an instant tenor as Catherine leaned into the sweet melody. Even if she didn't know the man she was with for the moment, she felt safe in the embrace of his arms, and of the soulful voice._

_Her head perched over his shoulder, she stared tranquilly out over the dance floor, as nearby couples moved smoothly and effortlessly over the dim floor. She caught another glance of Tam._

_He twirled around as a smile Catherine loved unfolded on his young face. Fragile blue beams crisscrossed his face, revealing a shallow pool of emotion. _

_But Catherine could see through his deep hazel-brown eyes into the deeper reserve - pit even - of stubborn emotion. _

_It was love in his eyes, and she knew he was lost in it. She followed his gaze to the man across from him, and couldn't hide her surprise at the sight._

_Catherine lost herself to shock, forgetting the sweet background vibrato drifting through the air.  
_

_Ari Marvin twisted Tam Jared delicately, like a flower. She could see that their gazes never left each other, even as Tam spun. Somehow, in all their jubilant dancing, they still exuded grace, but, more than that, happiness. _

_They didn't notice her; they were too lost in each other._

_Catherine stared at the grand clock on the wall, realizing it was later than she had intended. That always happened. It was too easy to get lost in the joy of the music. A tap on her shoulder interrupted her from departure._

_"Please don't tell anybody. Mr. Jared can't know. He doesn't like me." _

_Catherine nodded in sudden understanding as she shut the door. Her lips were sealed._

* * *

PRESENT

Catherine pulled out the worn, now-off-white box, no longer hidden under her jacket, from the car, and carefully brought it in to her room, where, at last, she opened it.

The stench of death was slighter than she had expected, though the reason was quickly discerned: For such a high profile case, there was very little evidence.

_Then again_, Catherine thought. _This was back in the 80's. They just didn't have the same resources we have now_. _Which will make my job all that much harder._

Snapping on latex gloves, she reached in and carefully pulled out a pair of worn black slacks. She placed them on top of her sanitized tablecloth. She had bought that particular tablecloth at a CSI convention specifically for the purpose of using it to work at home. It gave off very few particles, and was easy to keep sanitary, hence reducing the risk of contaminating evidence.

She had seldom used it, generally preferring to keep her work and home lives as separate as possible, especially with a teenage daughter in the house. This, however, was one of the few cases where the evidence had to be dealt with outside of the Lab.

She didn't need to prove anything. She wasn't looking to convict anyone. Sometimes she got involved with cases on the job, but her ultimate purpose was always to convict. In this case, however, curiosity - and, more importantly, her team's need for closure - were her only motives.

Digging further into the box, she finally unearthed the case file. Staring at the familiar face - blank brown eyes looking out and filled with the blood dripping down the torn but familiar forehead - she grimaced.

_Tam. So that's what became of you. _She had already spent too much energy pushing memories of her vibrant friend and pseudo-brother away. She didn't need more pain and reminiscence. What she needed was productivity.

She reached a hand in.

A button-down shirt with one bullet hole_._

The other bullet was clearly embedded into his skull. She wondered which bullet had killed him.

Turning away from the photos, she sought the next, less human piece of evidence. It was a black cotton jacket, not unlike the many other items of attire she'd been left to process over the course of her career. Light bloodstains marred the sleeves, with a prominent smudge now dried on the lower right sleeve. The evidence file stated that it was found on Ari. Wracking her brain, she couldn't quite remember Ari wearing that particular jacket the night of the murder... but, then again, after she's found out, she hadn't been in the best - or most lucid and detail-oriented - state of mind.

She couldn't quite make out the connection to the two bullets, given the blood splatter, if it could even be called that. A live body, she thought, should have produced more blood than that, from the shot to the chest. But there was barely any blood on the shirt. Then again, the shot could have easily been fired from an unusual angle, or to a less blood-filled part of the body, so as to provoke less blood spatter.

She patted down the jacket, careful not to jostle the dried blood. She was surprised to find a soft, cubic lump in the pocket. Whatever it was, it clearly hadn't aged much in 30 years. _So at least it's not food or something disgusting or moldy_, she thought with a sigh.

Withdrawing her hand from the pocket, she was surprised to find a small box, baring a red velvet exterior. She opened it carefully and was shocked at its contents, even though they could have easily been expected given their container.

A ruby peeked out from a gold band. _If I didn't know better, I'd think this was an engagement ring._

She had realized, given Ari's initial murder conviction, that he had been headed in a bad direction, but she had never taken him for the type to steal. Shaking her head, she realized that she knew her friends even less than she had thought. _No doubt that the man who butchered Greg and Tam would have few qualms with stealing jewelry._

An alarm clock jostled her focus, reminding her that Lindsey had to get to school. Carefully returning the evidence to its box, she set it aside, covering it with her jacket and hiding it under her bed.

* * *

_SEPTEMBER 9, 1985_

_Loud knocking to Catherine's apartment door woke her. She groaned, looking out the window at the dark sky. She had gotten home from work at 2, per usual, and had been looking forward to a nice day of rest. _

_Throwing off the soft, inviting comforter, she trudged to the door. She looked through the peephole and groaned when she realized that she did, in fact, have to open it. _

_Tam and Ari had been using her apartment as a secret meeting place often. Tam had her extra key and, when necessary, the guest bedroom as well, effectively.  
_

_Catherine opened the door to find an unusually disheveled Ari. _

_"Got a little action ahead of time, eh?" she asked with amusement. _

_Ari glared at her with bloodshot eyes. _

_Catherine chuckled at him. It was rare to see Ari looking quite so drunk. The man was a bartender, but always insisted on remaining relatively sober himself. He said he was too aware of the embarrassing, crude behavior of drunk men, from his work. Catherine had always suspected that another key part of it was the drunks' tendencies to say more than they meant. She knew Ari would never take a risk of getting inebriated and inadvertently exposing his and his boyfriend's secret._

_"Hey now. That's not the look you give to the woman giving up her apartment for you and your boyfriend's little rendezvous," she teased._

_He began to breathe deeply, clearly controlling some amount of anger or another strong emotion. _

_"Ari...?"_

_He looked her in the eye, and, this time, she could see that alcohol was not the cause of the redness in his stare. Fury, horror and despair welled up in his intense, teary gaze. Then he snapped._

_"There won't be another _rendezvous_!" His face contorted in some combination of anger and pain. She could see the streaks left by tears. "There won't be another..." He choked on his words. _

_"Ari... what's wrong? What happened? Did... did he break up with you?"_

_Ari broke down in tears, which Catherine took as an affirmative answer. _

_Suddenly, he was pacing, face still contorting, skipping quickly through emotions - rage, pain, sorrow, anger, shock, desolation. He stared down at his feet, biting his lips and looking as if contemplating some act of grave destruction. _

_"He left me... he left me for good. And it's all my fault." _

_He stared up at Catherine, pure rage now etched on his normally handsome features. Somehow, tonight he looked so much older, so much more worn out. _

_He clenched his jaw, staring at her with intensity - almost insanity. _

_"What... what did you do, Ari? Why'd he leave?"_

_He continued to stare at her. His eyes begged for a reprieve. He choked back a sob and held up his hand. _

_It was covered in blood. _

_"I killed him."_

_Everything that happened next was a blur - the police busting down the door to Catherine's apartment, cuffing Ari - apparently, he had fled from the scene - the police asking Catherine questions, which she answered truthfully. _

_She knew any information she gave them about Tam and Ari's relationship would almost certainly be concealed later. Mr. Jared had the money, and he would make sure of it. _

_The only other thing Catherine remembered distinctly from the night was kneeling to the porcelain god and puking her guts out. _

_Life wouldn't be the same without Tam._

**

* * *

**

**Author's Note: **I realize I left the robbers' names out for a while, which was probably confusing (I know it was confusing me while I was writing it). For clarification, Ari is the lead robber, who is described earlier as having a muscular build and being of regular height, with dark brown hair and deep blue eyes. Biggs is (appropriately) the larger robber, described as built like a linebacker, heavyweight wrestler or such, who tends to work with Richie, but who is more rational than Richie, as well as more loyal to Ari. Richie is the smallest and the rudest. He's the one who has been taunting Greg the most. Jules is probably the least clichéd of the robbers, or so I hope. He's the oldest and is described as lankier - skinny, but of comparable height to Biggs. He's the one who searched Greg, and he's remained relatively aloof. You'll see more of each character fleshed out more as the story develops, but I wanted to make sure that everyone has some idea or image for each of the characters. It was kind of difficult to establish their characters as well earlier, when Cath, Nick and Greg hadn't learned all of their names yet.

Anyways, much thanks to everyone for reading! Please review ;)

Harper


	6. La Cerradura, Part 1

_..._

_Salvar: to save, to overcome, to preserve, to rescue, to cover, to pass_

_Salvarse: to survive, to escape_

_..._

Disclaimer: I still don't own it.

Chapter Note: Now that Ari and Tam's relationship has been revealed, at least in part, it is now time to focus a bit more on the team - especially Nick and Greg. So far, Nick has been rather detached, but we haven't really seen how the heist is affecting him in the present, or even during the heist. Also, as has been most requested, we get some more Greg in this chapter as well. 'La Cerradura' translates to 'The Lock.'

* * *

CHAPTER 6: LA CERRADURA, PART 1

_THE CASINO_

_"Are we almost done?" Even through the mask, Greg could see Richie rolling his eyes. _

_"You can leave anytime," Greg replied. Humor was his means of coping, and his sarcasm, in the same way, tended to come out in the most stressful situations. It was not, however, to his benefit in this case. _

_Richie slapped him in the face and Greg grabbed the smaller man's arm on instinct. _

_He knew Sara and Grissom would be proud to see how well his self-defense training had been going. Nick had always advocated learning self-defense, but Greg was more dismissive of his lover's logic, especially given the Texan's paranoid tendencies. After the beating, however, Sara had seen Greg at his worst - lying still and swollen, with blood seeping out into the concrete pavement of a back alley. Sara's own reaction had inevitably led her to insist that Greg learn more about defending himself so that she would never have to see the man that was, in most ways, her best friend in such a position again. The added result had, of course, been Grissom's corresponding insistence, motivated in part out of concern for the welfare of the youngest member of his team, but also by his general inclination to do his own girlfriend's bidding. _

_By the time Greg had recovered from the beating, he had much of the team on his back to either sign up for training in self-defense or, preferably, to start carrying a gun. The latter was out of the question; anti-gun rhetoric had been hounded into Greg since a young age in the wealthy, liberal suburbs of San Gabriel. He understood the old adage - that guns don't kill people; only people do. Still, he didn't want to be one of those people, especially not after the Demetrius James ordeal. Warrick, in fact, had been the only member of night shift not weighing in on behalf of Greg learning how to fight; the native Las Vegan had insisted that Greg just had to know to play it safe, and that the streets of most of Las Vegas really weren't nearly as bad as they were cracked up to be. _

_Nonetheless, a year later, the self-defense training only served to piss Richie off, which did Greg no good._

_"Soundin' off, candy ass?"_

_Greg bristled at the derogatory name, though, being used to such insults, he normally just ignored them. In this case, however, his nerves overwhelmed his logic. He released Richie's arm.  
_

_"Is my 'soundin' off' getting in your way?"_

_"No, but I can find better ways to occupy that smart mouth of yours."_

_Greg paled. He was tempted to look down at Catherine, to hide from the man's gaze, but, instead, he looked the man back in the eyes, putting on a brave face. _

_"I'm trying to focus here. As stated, you really don't want her to die."_

_Greg saw the leader - apparently Ari - edge back into the room. _

_"Say boss," Richie began. "Seems like that Stokes fella is takin' a while ta' finish processin.' A bit too long, I'd say."_

_"How do you know his last name?" Greg asked, fear already taking hold again._

_"It's on his vest, idiot."_

_Greg sighed and turned his head back to Catherine. _

_"I suppose he is," Ari replied to Richie's earlier comment. He looked down at his watch._

_"Maybe we want to give 'im a bit of an incentive, huh?" Richie asked._

_Greg kept his head down, but glared nonetheless. He was relieved to see, out of the corner of his eye, that Ari was shaking his head._

_"Nah. If Catherine is doing better, then we can have him" - he gestured at Greg - "help his partner."_

_"Partner, eh? Since when are you makin' it all formal an' such?"_

_"Why don't you just mind your own work, Richie," Ari replied smoothly. "That's what you're good at."_

_Richie nodded in acceptance. "So you're gonna let this one go? To help his _boyfriend_?"_

_"Yes. I am going to do that. I'll watch Catherine and you two can go with Julian to monitor Mr. Stokes and Mr. Sanders and to see what you can find."_

_"Oh. The money."_

_"Yes."_

_Greg felt a hard tap on the shoulder and looked up to find himself staring into Ari's crystal blue eyes. _

_"That means you have to move."_

_Greg nodded, though he cast a reluctant glance at Catherine. _

_"Don't worry. I'll take care of Catherine. You have my word."_

_Though Greg doubted that the 'word' of this man - likely a convicted murderer, and, hopefully, soon to be a convicted murderer _and_ robber - was bankable, he got up and moved. There was something in Ari's gentleness toward Catherine that he found reassuring. And at least now he'd be working with Nick._

_Greg edged out of the room, keeping a safe distance between him and the robbers walking in front of him. Richie and Biggs moved at an ample speed, sparing Greg any more humiliating stares or comments. _

_Nick was quickly visible. Like Cath's heartbeat, Nick's diligent processing calmed Greg. His boyfriend was frenetic, but efficient and meticulous. Greg hoped that he could do as well. _

_"Hurry up there, _Greggo_!" He looked up, surprised at Richie's use of his nickname yet again._

* * *

PRESENT

Catherine leaned against the doorframe, looking out into the layout room. Nick had been there for three hours, staring at the same series of photos. The case was a tough one. A bullet shot to the head, from a distance. No signs of prior struggle. No gun. Little was known about the victim. Traces of heroin, accompanied by needle marks, sufficed as the only clues.

Based on the evidence, Catherine found it easy to narrow down the suspects to the dealer or, if the victim himself was a dealer, to a customer, or even a rival dealer. Logically, she thought, it was time to question nearby known druggies, particularly ones associated with heroin, and maybe even with 9 millimeter guns.

But Nick didn't seem to be of the same opinion. These days, he relied less and less on people, and more on evidence. Warrick had been right - almost - to say he was turning into Grissom, or at least into a Grissom of earlier years.

Catherine glanced down at her pager, rolling her eyes at the simple text, from her boss.

_Need locker._

Grissom had always been one to spare words. It felt like he had barely spoken since Sara's departure.

"Come on, Nick."

She wasn't too surprised that Nick didn't even flinch at her command. The words didn't register with the younger man. His eyes and mind were possessed, for the moment, solely by the series of now-worn photos layered across the table.

"Nicky," she repeated with more urgency. He twitched, finally looking up as she tapped him on the shoulder.

"Yeah?" His voice was impatient, which seemed to be the usual, at least since that night.

"We need to talk."

He scowled, but when her grip on his wrist didn't give, he conceded, tearing his face away from the photos.

"In the break room."

He nodded, reluctantly following her out the door, face still expressionless. She had no doubt that, though his feet pried him away from the table, the photos and corresponding case still held his mind. Either that or Greg still held it.

**

* * *

**

_THE CASINO_

_Nick stared across the room, looking for any more visible evidence. He cared about his own case, but, for now, doing his best job to meet the robbers' requirements was his chief interest. That, he knew, could easily be what it took to appease the men and ensure the three CSIs' safety. So he put his all into the strange quest of reverse-processing. _

_Julian - the taller, lanky robber, who also seemed to be the oldest - monitored Nick's work in silence. The gangly man sat against the wall of the casino, murmuring to himself. When Nick strained his ears closely enough, it almost sounded like the man was mumbling Shakespearian verses to himself. Nick chuckled. Were Grissom a robber, that's probably how he would spend his time in the given situation. _

_Footsteps interrupted his train of thought, and he cursed silently at the distraction. Neither Biggs nor Richie seemed to know much about investigating crime scenes or professionalism. They would only serve to detract from Nick's work, as a result, from the speed with which they all could, ideally, get out of the stifling backrooms. Nick ignored whatever rude words were drifting out of Richie's mouth at the moment. _

_A third set of footsteps followed - these ones Nick recognized, even though they normally bore so much more enthusiasm. Nick looked up, casting Greg what he hoped was a gentle, reassuring glance. Nick had been in enough stressful situations that he was confident in his ability to calm another person with such a glance. Then again, Greg was an unusually frenetic presence and Nick knew firsthand how hard it was to calm Greg down in the worst cases. _

_Greg gave a slight nod as he moved forward to join Nick in front of the wall. _

_"What do you need help with?" he asked quietly._

_On most occasions, Nick would have expected the lower-level CSI to figure out what to do on his own. But today was different, and Greg could have any number of rationales behind the question. _

_"Help me with the wall," Nick responded. _

_They began to look over the wall in silence, removing spots of blood and other fluids... and unidentified things... whenever they saw them. _

_To Nick, the silence was peaceful. The older CSI had already evaluated the situation and determined the best course of action. His plan was simple: Remove all evidence possible, no matter how minute, and get out as quickly as possible._

_Still, the robbers looked to be getting bored. _

_Nick felt a presence approaching him from behind, and Richie's breathing quickly made itself known at the back of Nick's neck. _

_"Can I help you?" Nick asked coolly. _

_"Nah. Just inspectin' your method."_

_"Richie. Give 'im some room." Without looking up, Nick could tell it was Biggs speaking. The larger man, clearly the enforcer, had a notably low voice. _

_Nick glanced over at Greg, who was holding his breath and glaring while watching the exchange. Had the situation been different, Nick would have been slightly aroused by the firm, focused expression on Greg's face and the possessive, protective sentiment it underlied__. But this was not the time for that. _

_Greg nodded at Nick in a gesture of solidarity and encouragement, and Nick redirected his thoughts back to the wall. _

_Greg tapped lightly on the wall from his spot a few feet down, to get Nick's attention again. _

_He leaned in to whisper in Nick's ear. "Why don't we find something for them to do. It'll make this go faster and get them off our backs."_

_Nick nodded, impressed with the logic. _

_"Hey," Greg addressed the three men, though he faced Julian (who seemed the least intimidating) most._

_Richie sneered back at Greg, but Greg didn't back down. _

_"You gettin' bored?" Greg asked, returning Richie's stare. _

_Richie snorted and Julian looked up questioningly. Biggs just continued to stare. _

_"O' course we are," Richie replied. "Why? Ya got some better way ta' keep us entertained?"_

_Greg nodded. "You guys could help us process."_

_Richie snorted again. "Do your job for you?"_

_Julian, however, seemed appeased. "Actually, that makes sense. What help do you need?"_

_"Start in that room," Greg replied quickly - almost a little too quickly._

_Nick caught the slack. "We're almost done with this room. We need you to start in the room next door. There were some fibers in there."_

_"But we weren't even -" Biggs started._

_"Yes we were," Julian interrupted. "I know the drill. We clean up the fibers, use some o' that fancy cleanin' stuff from your kits and wipe up everythin' that looks like a person's been near in the last day."_

_Greg and Nick nodded, impressed with the man's expertise. Then again, it made sense that someone in the operation would have to be intelligent and well-informed in order to pull off such a heist. _

_The three men made their way out and Greg and Nick both let loose sighs of relief. _

* * *

PRESENT

"Nick, sweetie, we need to talk," she said gently as she shut the break room door behind them. "You might want to sit down first."

He lowered himself mechanically to the sofa. She sat down next to him, and he scooted over on instinct.

His eyes were so empty, yet frantic and sad, his face covered in stubble. Warrick had finally convinced him to shave after three weeks, telling Nick that he was starting to look like Grissom, though the stubble had begun to make its way back again. He hadn't cut his hair in more than a month, since before the incident.

Nick looked frantically around him, as if for papers he thought he needed. "If it's about the Hernandez case, I _swear_ I'm on top of it."

"It's not about the Hernandez case."

"Oh." Nick furrowed his brow, as if confused. But he had to have known this was coming. He'd been acting this way for weeks - a month to be exact, or at least for the last three weeks.

Catherine looked up to make sure the break room was empty.

Warrick was standing by the coffee filter, pouring himself a glass and trying not to stare at what was happening on the couch. The coffee hadn't tasted the same since they lost Greg. Nick had taken the last of the Blue Hawaiian from the break room. He couldn't keep it together at work if he had to smell Greg's coffee. But the team would still recognize that scent on Nick every so often. He'd never actually disposed of it, and who could blame him? It was good coffee, though Catherine and Warrick both knew that wasn't the reason Nick still drank it in the safety of his home.

Catherine gave Warrick a look. He knew the one. He always would. Warrick made his way out, and Catherine could still see him standing guard. She knew he was at least a little curious - she almost would have expected some protest. After all, Warrick was Nick's best friend, or at least had been. Catherine had never known where the line had been drawn between best friends, particularly as it applied to Nick, Greg and Warrick. Gradually, especially as Warrick got closer to Tina, and with Greg in the field, the lines had changed; alliances had shifted. And, obviously, somewhere along the line, Nick and Greg had become something more than friends.

Catherine didn't notice the silence - Nick certainly had no complaints - until she saw Nick reach for a Kleenex. She smirked. Nick wouldn't be the one to break the silence. He had grown so accustomed to it as of late. She missed the noisiness of the team - the rowdiness of the boys, the chuckles and laughs as various combinations of six tired bodies gathered together for coffee. But nothing would be the same - certainly not the noise and rowdiness - without Greg.

She put a hand on Nick's shoulder. He didn't flinch. He didn't seem to notice it there, but he turned around nonetheless. His face held nothing but apathy - a blank stare - but she knew there was pain among the many other layers hidden behind the surface. Nick had always been one to wear his heart on his sleeve, and the fact that Catherine, who was normally good at reading people, couldn't see directly into his emotions in that moment, scared her. Nick was buried further into his own grief than she had thought.

"Nicky, it's been a month."

Nick nodded. He knew what she was talking about. _Of course_ he did. "They found him?"

She looked down painfully. _That's what he expected_, she thought. _He thought I'd tell him they found his - Greg's - body._ It was still too weird to be thinking of it as finding a corpse, not of finding Greg. That the dead body wouldn't contain the riotous laughter, that fierce, yet jovial and amicable personality they had all come to love. "No. They haven't found it yet."

Nick nodded, pursing his lips. "I figured as much. Why would they make him a priority?" he said as his voice broke. He didn't even try holding back the tears. Catherine could tell he'd been holding them back all day, most likely. It was in the safety of the break room, knowing that this was a personal chat with Catherine about what had been on his mind every minute for the last month, that Nick could break the stiff, cold façade he'd struggled to construct. Catherine wondered how he got through each day without breaking down in tears. _He probably goes home and breaks down as soon as he's out of here,_ she thought ruefully.

With all of that in mind, Catherine couldn't figure out how to break the news. Nick had been a walking zombie since the incident. While she could say she wanted him to get over it, she knew that wasn't realistic, nor would it even be healthy. There had to be a healthy grieving process out there, but it would take a while. She just wasn't sure if the news she was about to give Nick would help that process along, or if he was even ready for it.

It was a simple task, in theory. "A simple task" is what Ecklie had labeled it. And that man had as much humanity as a fruit fly from Grissom's collection. The graveyard shift, and probably even Ecklie, knew it meant so much more than that. Saying goodbye was easy. Just forming the words. Cleaning out Greg's locker was a goodbye, a simple task, but that wouldn't make it any easier for Nick.

"Nicky. You probably know there's gonna be a new CSI coming in." Judging by the surprised expression permeating the blank stare, Catherine could tell that he did not, in fact, know that. _Maybe he knows that at the back of his mind, but everything at the back of his mind has been drowned out by thoughts of Greg._ Catherine didn't want to blame her dead colleague, but his death really had left Nick a changed man, and not at all for the better. "The new CSI..."

"New CSI? Wait -" She could see Nick's face contorting, finally showing his realization as to who they'd be replacing. "Oh," he said, sorrowfully looking down.

"Grissom..." She struggled to get out the next words in the most diplomatic, gentlest way possible. "Grissom wants you to... err... it doesn't have to be you - but we thought you'd want to -"

Nick looked up. "I'm not training the newbie."

Catherine couldn't help but stifle a bitter chuckle. Nick, in his present, cold, oblivious state, was the last team member, aside from Greg, that would be assigned to training the new recruit. That would be a sure way of driving away the new CSI 1 within hours.

Nick looked up puzzled at Catherine's masked laugh. She coughed, reaching for the Kleenex box that seemed to stay permanently in Nick's hands. He didn't seem offended.

"No. We don't want you to mentor him - or her, whoever it is."

Nick nodded.

"But they're gonna need a locker."

Nick nodded again. "You want me to share? I don't really end up using mine for much anyways anymore." Catherine looked down sadly, remembering the happy team photos - all of them including Greg - that used to litter Nick's locker. Then she saw the truth dawn on him. "You want to use his locker?" It was barely a question.

Catherine nodded.

"He really is dead, isn't he?" Catherine could see the stale chocolate pooling up in Nick's eyes. She wanted to cry for the broken man sitting next to her.

"Yes," she whispered, holding back her own tears for the whole situation, for Greg, and for that treacherous night one month ago, but mostly for the man - her friend - sitting in front of her. She knew Nick would never be the same again. "Yes, he really is."

* * *

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Thanks to longas91, QueenOfTheUniverse, SuzSeb, Atticus, Marifw, K, LostLadyKnight and PugNTurtle for reviews on the last chapter! You guys are totally rocking my world with the reviews ;) And, like an addict, I still want more, so off to the little button.

~Harper


	7. La Cerradura, Part 2

_................................._

_Salvar: to save, to overcome, to preserve, to rescue, to cover, to pass_

_Salvarse: to survive, to escape_

_................................._

Disclaimer: If I owned it, Greg would get more screentime, Warrick wouldn't be dead, Yo!Bling would be canon and Standers would get wayy more subtext. Insert other conditionals here.

Author's Note: 'La Cerradura' translates to 'The Lock.' There will be violence and more general angst in this chapter.

* * *

CHAPTER 7: LA CERRADURA, PART 2

Catherine sighed sadly, staring at the dismal sight and clearing way for Nick. There was barely a need. He hardly noticed her presence as he dashed out of the locker room. Even Grissom could have seen the tears building in Nick's eyes, had he looked. She followed on light feet as he rushed away, hands barely shadowing his quickly tearing eyes.

Nick couldn't even handle clearing out Greg's old locker. It was hard to imagine him being able to take the news that Greg's case was closing -- that his boyfriend's body would, most likely, never be found. Catherine was glad that she hadn't tried to drop the second bombshell on Nick today.

Her eyes intent on Nick, Catherine hardly noticed Warrick standing still -- _He's probably already missed his date --_ also watching and almost blocking her passage. He was good at camouflaging and pretending not to watch. But she knew better. Nick had already made it to the men's restroom by the time Catherine had spotted her reliable, almost expressionless friend. "You wanna go talk to him?"

Warrick nodded, an understanding passing yet again in a split second before he rushed -- but not quickly enough to be conspicuous -- after Nick into the bathroom.

* * *

_THE CASINO_

_Nick finished dusting everything within a five foot radius of the corpse, as well as anything likely to have come into contact with it._

_He carefully looked over the dead body for any clues one last time. The corpse looked to be that of a higher-level employee. He was killed cleanly with a shot to the head. No defensive wounds or other markings were present._

_Had their processing not been interrupted, they would have still had at least an hour-long wait for Super Dave, the assistant coroner who, like Catherine, had first been dispatched to the desert 419, where Warrick still was. Nick wondered what would happen when Super Dave arrived now, or why Caveliere hadn't noticed anything yet. Then again, the detective was probably expecting them to take another few hours to finish with the scene, so he probably didn't expect to hear anything from them._

_Nick looked back at the body, then scanned the room again. The room was so barren. He got up to try to find something else._

_That was when he noticed the spot on the wall. It was tiny -- only the expert eye of a CSI trained to notice the smallest details would have seen it. It looked like it could be a fiber, maybe even from the body. The DB was a man, middle-aged and wearing a white shirt and black dress pants. The shirt was only slightly brighter than the room's off-white walls, and Nick hoped the fiber, which looked to be black, was from the vic's pants. It was smaller than a fingerprint and almost camouflaged with the wall. But the key word was almost,__ as he bent down to inspect it, quickly finding that it was not a fiber over the wall but a hole that bit into it._

_Curious, he bent down further to look through the hole, in case there was any clue hidden inside. Looking in, he was greeted not with a small hole filled with insects, nor even with a few stacks of bills. A gap was revealed._

_"Hey Greg! Come here!" he whispered loudly to his partner, who stood feet away._

_Greg turned his head quizzically. Curiosity was mixed with the lingering stress of the situation on his face. _

_"Come 'ere. Take a look at this," Nick said, waving Greg towards him. He pointed to the hole. _

_Greg looked at him inquisitively before a look of realization hit him._

_Nick looked at his partner, questioningly, as Greg leaned down to see his estimation confirmed._

_"The Braun safe! Congratulations, Nicky! You just found a fortune!" Greg whispered excitedly. The tension on the younger CSI's face was temporarily gone, and Nick himself breathed a sigh of relief in response._

_Nick turned around, raising an eyebrow incredulously. "Are you sure Greg?"_

_"You can go ahead and check it out, but I bet that's what it is. It's sure what it looks to be. By the way, according to my confidential interviews with Lily Flynn, the locker combinations for the safe are likely to be 6-8-47, 6-9-36, 8-2-6 and 22-8-4. "_

_"You memorized all of those?!" Nick asked, shaking his head in greater disbelief as he tried to memorize the numbers. He looked over his shoulder to confirm that the robbers were still gone. _

_"Sort of," Greg said, smiling. "I'll tell you how I figured it out someday__," he added with a wink. "For now, I'll get back to the wall. You check out the safe and I'll cover for you. Don't take long in there. I kinda doubt they were ever in there. If they were, they would have gotten out hours ago."_

_Nick fiddled around before finding a button on the inside of the hole. A small enough part of the wall pulled back to reveal a lock. Plugging in the numbers Greg had given him, Nick was surprised when the wall moved back, revealing a tiny room barely big enough to contain both Nick and its treasures._

_He still couldn't believe the luck of the find. Money could buy anything. By that logic, finding the opulent safe had to win them something. "Maybe, if we're lucky, we can buy them off with some of the money from the safe."_

_"That doesn't seem like such a good idea," Greg responded, rather despondently._

_"How come?"_

_"We can't just give away money that's not ours."_

_"We're trying to get _out_ of here."_

_"Yeah, but it's still not our money."_

_"Greg. Last I checked, I've dealt with more of this sort of situation than you have."_

_Greg rolled his eyes. "Yeah. I can barely count back all the times you've been stuck in a hostage crisis at one of the biggest -- and richest -- Vegas landmarks. Cause it's sooo darn many."_

_"Oh shut up. You know what I mean." Now really wasn't the time for another argument with Greg, even if this one was over professional, rather than personal issues._

_"Yeah, but _you_ don't seem to be getting what _I _mean. This casino" -- he gestured at his surroundings -- "is a big part of Vegas." He paused, clearing his throat. " As in a big part of the Vegas economy. As in, if we just let these guys take all the money here, the casino would lose major money. People would lose their jobs... It would affect the entire city. It's not our place to just give the money away. Not to mention it would be rewarding these guys with what's basically an infinite amount of money."_

_"There's no such thing as an infinite amount of money. Greed knows no bounds."_

_Greg chuckled, shaking his head. It astounded Nick how Greg could _always_ find something to laugh or smile about, in even the direst of situations. It reminded him of Sara telling him how Greg had even been joking around -- flirting with Sara, even -- when she'd come to see him after the beating in the alleyway, even as he laid on the dirty pavement, bruised, bloody and in excruciating pain. _

_"What?" Nick asked, wondering what was so funny._

_"You, my friend, have been spending _way_ too much time with Grissom. 'Cause that is _not_ something you'd be sayin' on your own."_

_"Hey now. Just 'cause I'm a hick doesn't mean I'm not edumacated," Nick joked back, overdoing his accent. Still, he quickly brought himself back to the situation, in all its gravity. "In all seriousness, Greggo --"_

_"No. We're not giving them the safe. And that's final."_

_"Greg. You don't have the authority to --"_

_"Nick. We have to get to work. Now. Before they realize we're not working. We can talk about the safe later. But this damn room has to get processed either way --"_

_"Not if we pay them off first."_

_"What makes you think they won't just blow our brains out once they've gotten the chance? Huh?"_

_Nick nodded, recognizing Greg's logic. _

_"This way," Greg continued, "at least we're guaranteed some more time. We already know their names, so the likelihood of them just letting us go is pretty darn low. And yes, you may have been in more scary situations on the job, but I _still_ know how hostage situations work. Right now, given the circumstances, time is on our side."_

_"I'm not sure about that. And, if time is on our side, then why send them over to help processing?"_

_"To get them to leave. Plain and simple. We can BS all the processing we want. Take as much time as we want. But giving them the money could mess that _all_ up."_

_"I still don't think you're right about that. Hostage situations are different if nobody knows you're taken hostage. So far, as far as we can tell, there's no lot of SWAT officers waitin' outside to take 'em out. So we might want to get them out sooner, before LVPD shows up."_

_Greg nodded, recognizing the validity of the statement. "Fine. But, speed aside, we still can't give them the safe. It's wrong."_

_Sensing the noise of – no doubt – the robbers talking __coming close, he accepted Greg's logic, for the moment, and closed the door to the safe before returning to work processing. _

_Soft footsteps behind them tore away their focus. _

_"How're you two doin'?"_

_"Uhh." Greg moved over, as if to show Julian his progress. _

_"I don't see anything." Julian's voice was soft, but powerful, and more than a little creepily foreshadowing. _

_"What have you done?" he asked Greg. _

_"I... I just got here. I started dusting the wall --"_

_"I've been watching your friend here" -- he gestured at Nick -- " for over a half hour. And I've seen how long _he _takes to dust walls. He finished at least a full side of the wall in that half-hour. Sure enough, it looks like he's gotten a third of that wall over there done, after ten minutes. But in the same ten minutes you've gotten done maybe a foot or so. You wanna explain to me why that is?"_

_Greg gulped. "I... err... helped him with that wall."_

_"You're lying."_

_"No, I'm not."_

_Julian leaned in. "I suggest you start telling the truth or it's gonna get uglier here. The girl in the other room is special. To Ari. As I'm sure you've noticed. That guy, your _boyfriend_" -- he gestured at Nick again -- "actually gets his work done. He's _useful_." He leaned in to look Greg in the eye. "You, however, are disposable. You're not workin' fast. In fact, judgin' by the progress you two have made in the last ten minutes, and by the amount of talkin' I'm hearing from this room, I'd say that, if anything, you're slowing _down_ the work here. And that makes you less than disposable. It makes you trash. Something that maybe we _should_ dispose of."_

_Greg shivered and leaned as far away from the man as he could. Julian seemed uninterested in his movement and backed up himself before leaving the room. However, when he headed not for the room he'd been clearing out, but for the one where Ari and Catherine were, Greg and Nick both knew that they were in trouble -- or at least one of them was. _

**

* * *

**

PRESENT

Nick was washing his face. Warrick knew instantaneously what that meant. Nick had been nowhere near hygienic in the past month, to the point that Warrick and Catherine were left to remind him of simple things like washing his face, shaving... They'd gotten to the point of trading off weeks to stop by Nick's apartment to pick up his laundry. The man was a mess, to say the least.

And, the mess that he was, Nick wasn't washing his face because of dirt. Warrick gently walked up behind him, and Nick didn't even notice.

Nick looked up from the sink, checking his face for signs of crying, when Warrick's eyes met his in the bathroom mirror. Nick's sad expression morphed quickly -- but not quickly enough -- into an almost angry stare, as if challenging Warrick's place behind Nick at the sink.

"There are more sinks."

"My hands are clean. Because, unlike you, I've been on top of my hygiene lately."

Nick scowled. "If I want to grow back my hair and stuff, that's up to me." _It's not like Greg's here to complain anymore._

Warrick rolled his eyes. He knew Cath had already played 'good cop,' or maybe the gentle mother, in the locker room to Nick. That clearly hadn't worked. It wasn't about telling Nick his grief was wrong, but he needed to be functional. "Dude. Cath and I have been doing your fuckin_'_ _laundry_ for the past month." Seeing Nick's hollow eyes, Warrick couldn't resist losing at least part of his 'bad cop' routine to his gentler side -- the one that had been Nick's best friend, and felt for his friend's anguish. _It's Nick, for cripes' sake._ Softening his voice, Warrick spoke again, knowing Nick probably wouldn't respond anyways. "You're not acting like Nicky anymore. You haven't been yourself."

Nick furrowed his brows at the last statement before replying sharply -- bluntly -- "Well, Greg isn't Greggo anymore, either."

"Nick --"

"I'll wash my own laundry from now on. I'm a grown man."

"Well, you're not acting like it."

Nick scowled. "What do you want, Warrick?"

"To help you!" Warrick couldn't help but shouting. It had seemed obvious to him. "Honestly, getting out of doing extra laundry didn't make _that_ much of a difference for me anyways," he added, shaking his head with a sad chuckle. "I just want my friend back."

Nick looked to be contemplating Warrick's last words. He gently nodded his head in understanding, before speaking. "It's just... today... Cath and Griss wanted me to clear Greg's locker. And... I..." He struggled for words. "I just couldn't. I couldn't... just... say goodbye like that. I couldn't admit that he's not coming back."

Warrick contemplated his options. It was tempting to go for tough love again, explaining that Nick _had_ to accept that Greg wasn't coming back, whether he wanted to or not. Because, ultimately, that was the truth. Greg _wasn't_ coming back. Seeing the tears threatening release yet again, however, forced the softie out of Warrick, and quickly at that. "I'll clear his locker out for you, if you want."

Nick was silent for a moment, considering the proposal. "There's a big backpack I left in the locker room. Can you just... stick everything in there? Carefully. I'll sort it out later."

"Sure."

A small smile blossomed on Nick's face -- the first one Warrick had seen on Nick all day. Warrick doubted he was doing the right thing, but it made Nick happy, and Catherine would hopefully be appeased by the temporary resolution. If Nick -- or, more appropriately, Greg's family -- felt like sorting through it later, they still could. But this allowed more time for Nick to find closure on his own terms. _And God knows closure is what Nick needs,_ Warrick thought with a sad sigh as he closed the door.

Warrick headed to the locker room, grabbing a bag from his own locker -- it was nicer than the backpack Nick had left out -- and carefully began folding the contents of Greg's locker and tenderly putting them in the backpack. He finished quickly.

Grabbing his keys out of his own locker, he headed out.

* * *

_THE CASINO_

_Julian returned from the room, face still stoic. Greg and Nick silently let out breaths of relief as the older robber moved toward the room that Biggs and Richie were supposed to be clearing. _

_But their relief was cut off mid-breath__ when Julian looked back at them with a chilly, frightening smile. _

_"One of the boys will want to give _you_ an incentive not to take your time and lie to me," he spoke, again smoothly and venomously, to Greg. Greg shivered._

_Richie reappeared in the room, scowling. Greg could tell in an instant that they had had little luck with cleaning, and with finding whatever it was they were looking for. _

_"You got somethin' for me to do, Julian? Or some_body_?"_

_Greg glared. "The only thing for you to do is what you _were_ doing. So get back to it if you want to get out of here."_

_Richie growled, and Greg instantly knew the smart talk had been a bad idea, as Richie approached him. _

_"You gonna get snooty with me, boy?"_

_Greg stood up to face him, and show that he was no longer a boy to be taken lightly. No matter the derogatory names the world seemed intent on throwing at him, he was a man. _

_"You wanted us to help process and clear the scene of _your_ crime. It's hardly beneficial for _you_ to agitate us while we're _attempting_ to do what you asked of us."_

_"Quit it with the big words," Richie replied, glaring Greg down. "Tryna sound all smart, huh?" he added as Biggs entered the room. "I'll show you."_

_Greg eyed the increased threat, watching Biggs' eyes turn into a leer. Greg took a step back._

_"That's right, boy," Richie said, sneering. "Back it down." He pulled out a gun and twirled it around. Greg was surprised that he'd just thought to use that, but, then again, he probably wouldn't have needed it in the first place against Greg. _

_He pointed it at Greg, gesturing to sit down. "Hands on your head."_

_Greg glared. The additional order was unnecessary. Greg clearly wasn't carrying a gun._

_"Biggs, you wanna search 'im? Or can I?"_

_"Be my guest."_

_"You already searched me," Greg replied with gritted teeth. But the men ignored him, continuing as if he hadn't spoken._

_"Nice. You spot 'im, then."_

_"Sure thing," Biggs replied, taking Richie's gun._

_As much as Greg would have liked to take the opportunity to knee Richie in the groin or such, and bolt, he knew the idea was beyond unrealistic._

_He could feel Richie's breath on his neck as the smaller man moved behind him to frisk him for a weapon. Greg rolled his eyes, and tried to distract himself from the moment, as the hands made their way over him. _

_That was when he heard the tapping. It was coming from the wall -- from Nick. Nick stared angrily at him, mouthing the word 'safe.' _

_Greg rolled his eyes. He wasn't giving the combination over. _

_Richie repositioned himself in front of Greg, and sneered up. Greg could feel a larger body -- no doubt Biggs -- move behind him. _

_Julian seemed to have picked up on Nick's words. "What's your boyfriend tryin' to say to you?"_

_"None of your business," Greg replied icily._

_"You gonna tell me what he's goin' on about?" Richie asked, still sneering._

_Greg just glared back._

_"Why's it takin' it so long to process, kid?" replied the gruff voice -- Biggs -- behind him. "It seems like you needed an incentive, huh?"_

_Greg shook his head._

_Richie's glare was venomous. The hands grabbed his shirt collar, and moved down his chest, kneading hard, as Biggs held Greg's back steady._

_Greg grunted at the pain._

_Biggs yelled out, "Hey Ari! We got somethin'!"_

_Greg could hear a gentle shuffle in the other room and, gradually, Ari made his way in, carefully aiding a still-wounded Catherine._

_"What seems to be the issue?" Ari asked impatiently, as he shot worried glances at Catherine. _

_It was Julius that replied. "Something's up with this one." He pointed to Greg. "He's either a really bad investigator, or he's been spending his time on something else."_

_Greg glared, but underneath he was genuinely worried. Julian had an uncanny ability to guess his activities, or so it seemed._

_Biggs leaned in, to whisper urgently in Greg's ear. "So what was it you were doin,' huh?"_

_Greg ignored the question, despite the hands' painful progress. _

_Richie's sneer turned away from Greg, and towards the wall. Greg gulped. It turned back to the leader._

_The leader turned back to Greg. "Is there a reason you're not answering my colleague's question?"_

_Greg snorted at the word 'colleague.' "I was processing the scene. Like I told your other _colleague_." He tried to lift a hand to point to Julian, but Biggs retained a hard grasp on Greg's arms, so the CSI simply nodded his head toward the older robber._

_Ari spoke this time. "You're hiding something." His voice was even more frightening than Julian's -- it wasn't quite low, nor was it quite high. It was, however, more than quite confident. _

_Greg shook his head furiously, still too terrified for words. _

_"Just leave him alone. He was just working slowly. He can speed up. Just leave him alone so he can concentrate. So we _all_ can concentrate." Greg was grateful to see that Nick was, in this case, the voice of reason. _

_"Fine, Tex. Tell us what he's hiding," Julian replied. "Because I know he'd hiding something."_

_"We found the safe."_

_"The safe?" Julian raised an eyebrow. _

_Ari, however, broke the excuse. "That still doesn't cover all the time he wasn't doing anything."_

_Greg looked over at Nick, pleading with his eyes for Nick to not say anything more, but it was all in vain._

_"We were arguing about whether to open it."_

_"How is that relevant if you don't even know _how_ to open it?" Richie replied, eyebrow raised in clear anticipation of a verbal victory._

_Nick looked over at Greg apologetically before replying. "We do know the combination."_

_Even Julian gasped, though it was quickly replaced by a guffaw. "Like hell you do."_

_"We do. Or, rather, Greg does."_

_"Does he?" Julian eyed Greg with increasing interest. "Prove it."_

_Greg shook his head vehemently. _

_"Well then. I'd say your bluff is called." He turned to Richie, who punched Greg in the stomach. "_That_'s for your lie," he said to Nick. _

_Nick glared. "I'm not lying. Greg. Tell them the combination."_

_Greg shook his head again._

_"I swear, he knows it."_

_"Well, in that case, we'll just have to beat it out of him," Julian replied stiffly. He turned to Ari, who nodded his head in affirmation._

_Richie grabbed Greg's chin, forcing him to look Richie in the eye. "You're gonna tell us how to get in. Otherwise, we're gonna make you regret it."_

_Greg realized the meaning of Richie's words when Richie's hand found its way back onto Greg's chest, falling down to grope him. Greg squirmed and let loose a small cry at the sudden, painful contact. But he still shook his head. Especially now, knowing what the men were capable of. He wasn't going to give them the money that would, no doubt, guarantee them free run of the streets._

_Greg was relieved to finally feel the release from Richie's hands. The leader -- Ari -- moved toward him, looking him in the eye. _

_"Tell us now." The man's gaze was intense, and Greg practically squirmed away, just from the hard stare of the deep blue-green eyes. _

_Greg didn't answer. He was too scared to think, which meant no risking giving away any information._

_"Where is the safe?"_

_Ari's hands gripped Greg's chin more harshly, and Greg could feel the hard, strong skin and nails biting into cheeks. _

_Ari gestured outward to his three co-conspirators. "You know what they'll do to you if you don't cooperate?"_

_The robber ran his hand softly up Greg's chest, eliciting shivers from his captive._

_Greg turned his face downward, or at least as downward as it would go, in shame at the implications. He gave a small nod._

_Ari's voice grew gentler. "Then why won't you give us the answers?"_

_"Because it's not the right thing to do." The answer was soft, scared and vulnerable._

_Ari shook his head, clearly in exasperation at Greg's obstinacy. He gestured to Biggs, who moved forward. Greg felt Richie grip on his back tighten. _What's going on? Why are they moving?

_Greg was terrified, not knowing what was coming next._

_The fist in his gut interrupted his train of thought. He doubled over, against Richie's tight shoulder lock, and let out a startled cry._

_As soon as he had fallen, hands reached down to pick him up again. Greg squirmed against the arms holding him still._

_Ari edged toward him, staring him in the eyes again. Then, he reached down for the hem of Greg's t-shirt. Greg squirmed again as the t-shirt was brought up and over his head, effectively blinding him. It covered his head, and he worried about suffocating. He hated not seeing what they planned on doing to him._

_A new pair of hands -- probably Ari's or Julian's -- reached down to trace his stomach. He felt the hands push and prod, as if searching for something. Finally, they settled on a spot, and Greg knew why. They didn't want to kill him. Greg screamed in pain as a sharp pain hit the spot, even as he knew, thanks to Ari's knowledge of anatomy, that the knife or whatever it was had avoided any key internal organs. _

_Greg moaned, and he could hear Richie chuckling in his ear._

_Greg was finally allowed to fall to the floor, but was quickly met with cruel kicks to the stomach. He could hear -- and feel -- at least one rib cracking. He whimpered in pain at each blow. Breathing was hard as it was, and he couldn't see the source of the blows through the t-shirt still covering his head. He felt panicked, blind and helpless._

_He tried to roll over, but was rewarded with a kick to the back. Another foot slammed down on his side, eliciting another shriek of pain. _

_Suddenly the attacks stopped, and Greg groaned in relief, finally succeeding in curling into a protective ball. He could feel someone approach him; the heated breathing gave whoever it was away. Greg flinched reflexively from the presence. _

_He felt hands reach for the shirt that still covered his face. Greg was both relieved and afraid to have the obstacle removed, improving his breathing, but forcing him to face one of the assailants. He immediately tried to shirk away from the face as soon as the shirt was off, but a hand stopped him, eliciting a scared whimper._

_"This is your last chance. Tell us how to get into the safe. I know you know how." The man gestured at the safe. "Or, at least, your boyfriend seems to think so. Either he's a liar, or you are. Either way, one of you is going down." _

_Greg glared. Even if Nick seemed to think giving them the safe would help in some way, Greg wasn't giving in. He didn't know who the robbers were or what they wanted, but they definitely were not touching Nick. Which meant Greg played the liar._

_The man was about to say something when Catherine rolled over, pushing a reassuring hand towards Greg. But her eyes, Greg could see, were clearly on the man standing over Greg. _

_"Ari. Please. Don't hurt him." _

_The man took a step back, clearly taken off guard by the request. _

_Her voice grew softer, but more imploring. "Don't -- Stop touching him. He's not Tam."_

_The man stared at Catherine, horrified. "How -- ah --" He struggled for words, like someone gasping underwater for some airy relief. Finally he cut off the stumbling with curt, angry words. "You don't know what you're talking about, Cath."_

_"Greg isn't going to tell you how to open it. He's a stubborn one," she almost sobbed out, with a mirthful, sad, dry chuckle. "Ask Nicky."_

_"I'm fairly certain that if _Nicky_ knew the combination, he would have given it to us by now."_

_Catherine shook her head. "He only needs to know part of it. I think _I _can figure out the rest."_

_Somehow, her words seemed to convey more than Greg could see to the man, who now seemed speechless. Still visibly perturbed, for whatever reason, by the conversation, he nodded, following Catherine's instructions to the far wall. He paused before turning back, where he reached for Catherine and gently helped her up. Together, they hobbled over to the wall to speak to Nick. _

_Greg stared, astonished by the betrayal, even as he was grateful for the temporary reprieve in violence towards himself._

_He watched Nick repeat whichever numbers he had managed to remember to Catherine. And then he saw Catherine's face light up. Greg should have guessed that Catherine would have been able to make the connection. It was just his luck that one of the other two people alive, in the whole world, that knew the combination for the safe, was in the same room and willing to give the information over. _

_He saw Catherine and the man moving around in front of the hole, and crossed his fingers that something good would come of their actions. _At least Catherine seems to get along with him...

_Then the door opened._

* * *

PRESENT

Wendy was distracted from the pile of DNA samples waiting to be processed by a tap on the shoulder. _Finally, _she thought, as she looked up at Catherine's smiling face. _More to do for the case. _

She had worked her butt off at the scene, but the thoroughness, Wendy knew, would be worth it. She wanted to know her case inside and out. Rather start off putting in 120 percent and slow down from there, as needed, than to start off doing the minimum amount of work per case, especially when even having a career as a CSI depended on it.

She followed Catherine out of the lab, presumably to view results or interview the source of the hair found on the dresser.

That work ethic had always been her style. That was what had allowed her to finally succeed as a DNA technician for the Vegas crime lab, where two before her had failed. Greg, she suspected, had succeeded due to a combination of hard work and phenomenal brain power. People had given him crap -- a lot -- especially as a CSI 1, but they failed to appreciate just how smart he was. She had little doubt that he could have beaten any other lab employee -- maybe even Grissom or Sara -- in a game of chess, a Mensa puzzle or any other test of mental prowess. He had been a force to be reckoned with, which left her all the more unsure of her path toward replacing him.

Wendy was immersed in thought as the pair headed toward the locker room.

She had always taken pride in beating men in their own games -- fields they expected to excel at, and men that took her as a trophy wife bimbo type, not an intelligent, sentient being. She had always taken pride in their looks of surprise as she, through sheer hard work, surpassed their own efforts. But she had no intention of beating Greg, or rather, his record, as a CSI 1. She doubted she even could. Greg had never been the kind to underestimate, and certainly not the type to dismiss someone's mental abilities because of a pretty face. He had been, truly, a good person.

She struggled against his shadow, legacy and memory every day, as both a person and as a professional.

Which made Catherine's next words evoke all the more thundering of emotions.

"Wendy. You've done a good job. I know you haven't passed all of your proficiencies yet, but I trust you will. Gil, Warrick and I all do." Nick's name wasn't even worth mentioning, Wendy knew, because he probably wasn't even aware that she was training to become a CSI, given his oblivious hyper focus of the last month.

Catherine led the way to the locker room, pointing at locker number 7.

"Here's the key to your new locker."

* * *

_THE CASINO_

_Nick kneeled over the prone man in front of him, watching beads of sweat cling to flushed skin and, ever so slowly, disappear down the ridges of Greg's face and arms and neck. Nick ran a hand over his boyfriend's face, and Greg leaned in to the gesture. _

_"How'd you get yourself into this, Greggo?" Nick whispered as he stroked Greg's sweat and blood drenched hair. "Why not just cooperate?"_

_"Had to do the right thing," Greg whispered, looking up into Nick's eyes._

_Nick sighed, understanding, at least somewhat. "You're lucky that wound was planned out. And that Ari knew what he was doing. That he was trying not to kill you with that one, because he easily could have."_

_Greg looked up and nodded without meeting Nick's eyes. "I can get it checked out when we get out." His voice was surprisingly -- and scarily -- hoarse, which almost brought tears to Nick's eyes. _

_Greg gently pushed one of Nick's hands away and Nick looked down questioningly. _

_"Don't touch. I've got evidence."_

Evidence_. The word had never held such horrific possibilities before, Nick thought with a startled shudder. The robbers clearly understood the concept of investigating crime scenes. They would understand that they'd left evidence all over Greg from the beating. And they couldn't leave behind evidence._

_Nick choked back a sob and clutched Greg closer. _

* * *

**Author's Note: **

Thanks to LostLadyKnight, Marifw, Meg, Longas91 and Atticus for reviews on the last chapter! Tomorrow's Christmas, and I'd love to wake up to lots of new reviews on Christmas morning -wink wink-. Given that many people are likely busy for Xmas Eve and Xmas, I might wait a little extra to update Chapter 8. If you're looking for something else to read while waiting for updates, make sure to check out my wonderful beta, LaughableBlackStorm's, 'The Sky At Night.' It's probably the best Greg angst I've ever read, and definitely among the best written fics I've ever read.

Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays!

Harper


	8. La Montaña

_................................._

_Salvar: to save, to overcome, to preserve, to rescue, to cover, to pass_

_Salvarse: to survive, to escape_

_................................._

**Author's Note:** 'La Montaña' translates to 'The Mountain.' A new mystery is introduced. Also, I said I tried to avoid writing songfics. So I'll warn you -- there is a song here. I like to think it's somewhat well-placed.

* * *

CHAPTER 8: LA MONTAÑA

Warrick pulled into the nearest convenience store as he headed home. He still hadn't quite gotten used to buying things in smaller portions, or to having to buy things at all again. Tina hadn't exactly been a determined cook, but she _was_ generally happy to shop.

Despite being an adult male, Warrick did not, in fact, harbor a grudge against the task at hand. His grandmother had made him a pretty decent cook. While Greg had been the mama's boy of the team, Warrick had no hesitation in calling himself a 'grandma's boy,' and not just because it sounded cooler. His grandma was a _cool_ lady, even at 93. Hobbling around with a mean mouth of dentures, Grams still made the best soul food. But Warrick liked to chide her that he was approaching second-best. Her friend Lucille, sharp and chipper at a young 88, had given him a good whack on the head for the comment.

He licked his lips, thinking of what he was going to cook. Tina had always loved it when he cooked. But this time he was cooking for someone who was definitely not Tina. Amy had agreed to postpone the date -- reluctantly at that -- for the next night, and Warrick was getting ready to make a meal that would really make it up to her.

The plan was to do all of the prep work when he got home that night, and then to finish cooking in time for the date the next night. He quickly assembled the majority of the necessary ingredients, though he was still stuck over the meat. He couldn't put his finger on why, but salmon just didn't fit the meal quite right. Nonetheless, Amy dubbed herself a vegetarian, albeit a fish-eating one. Hence, not so familiar with cooking tofu, he opted for the likable pink fish.

Warrick had impressed many women over time with his ability to plan and cook meals. But what was there to say? Beneath his tough guy exterior, Warrick was still a romantic, and a romantic with mad skills. What he did, he excelled at, and if planning a perfect romantic meal was what he sought to excel at, then so be it. He would kick just as much butt at that as he did at poker.

Remembering his relatively empty fridge and the rancid milk inside, he went for a half gallon of milk. He had become used to buying a gallon, but, without Tina, it always ended up going bad before he finished it. Thoughts of his ex quickly reminded him that she had also taken the garlic mincer with her, which he would need for the green beans, and life in general. _But where would a grocery store keep a garlic mincer...?_

Seeing a sales associate carrying loaves of bread to put on the shelves, he made his way to the baked goods aisle.

"Excuse me, miss?"

The slim brunette turned around. "Yes?" she said between popping and chewing bright pink gum.

Warrick was taken aback. She looked so darn familiar, but he couldn't place it. She was definitely young -- probably in her mid-teens. And _where_ would Warrick know a _teenager _from? Then it dawned on him. _She must be from a case. _He studied her more carefully. Her hair was definitely dyed. Either she wasn't wearing make-up, or she put it on well enough to escape notice. And her eyes definitely looked eerily familiar. If she was from a case, then it was either an earlier case, giving her time to get out of juvie and get a job by the present, she was a witness, or she was someone that had gotten off easily. Either way, it made him slightly uncomfortable to be getting assistance from someone like that. _But it's just at a grocery store. It's not like she'd poison the food -- or the garlic mincer._ He interrupted his own ridiculous line of reasoning.

"Do you know where the garlic mincers are, if you carry them?"

The teen smirked. "Right this way," she said, turning on her heels. She handed him the mincer, and started toward the check-out lane.

"What's that smirk for?" he asked, uneasily, as she began to charge his purchases.

"Huh?"

"I saw that face." He fumbled in his bag for his wallet. He almost used a discount card from the last CSI convention to ring up his purchases, before noticing his error. _Man am I tired._ Finally, he reached for his credit card.

"Umm... It's just… well my mom always told me that any man who does the prep work for a meal is a real man. But you never said it's for a meal you're cooking, as opposed to just buyin' stuff for your wife to cook."

Warrick chuckled. "I'm single." _Wow, that came out wrong. Especially addressed toward a teenager._ He shifted his head down, avoiding eye contact as he scanned his credit card. "I mean... I'm cooking for my girlfriend."

"Oh," the teen said with a look of what appeared to be... _disappointment? _

_Is this teenager hitting on me?!_ Warrick thought with a combination of bemusement and disgust. He didn't know whether or not to be flattered, and settled with simply finishing bagging his groceries and making his way toward the door.

"Well, thanks for your help," he said, as he practically burst through the door, his motions betraying more anxiety than he would have liked.

"No problem, Warrick," the teen replied.

By the time Warrick made the connection that she knew his first name, she was out of sight.

Warrick shook his head as he loaded the bags into his car. _That was one weird interaction. And one weird teenager. But there was something about her..._ He couldn't put his finger on it, but convinced himself it had something to do with paternal instincts. He did, however, remember very distinctive blue eyes.

* * *

Warrick stopped thinking as he drove, turning on his favorite oldies radio station, and smiled to himself when a Motown marathon came on.

That was the final straw in proving himself a romantic. Man, did he love the Supremes. He'd always just said, as a kid, that it was because he had a crush on Diana Ross. Seriously, who didn't?

In reality, he'd liked Flo better. Florence Ballard had been a strong, independent woman.

_And her curves,_ he thought to himself, drooling. He'd always been a sucker for a girl with curves.

Amy and Tina, now that he thought of it, had been more Nick's type than his. Whenever they went out, Nick had always ended up with the tall, skinny, relatively curve-less girls. Warrick was a curves man, but he judged Amy and Tina by so much more than their body types. He was a romantic, after all. Not a man ho.

He lost himself in the smooth melodies for the remainder of the drive.

Turning into Nick's driveway, he was disappointed to be turning the radio off. _But it's still a marathon,_ he thought, smiling. He grabbed the bag as he headed in. He still knew where Nick kept his spare key, even though it felt like he hadn't visited in quite a while. It had felt like Nick had spent a lot less time at his house in the last few years. Now that he thought about it, he realized it had probably started a little bit after the coffin incident.

He knocked. This time, miraculously, Nick was at home. Really, he had pretty much always been home, either at home or at the lab, since the last incident. The _incident_.

Warrick sighed. The _incident_ that had changed everything. Nick just wasn't the same anymore.

Though he knew where the key was hidden, Warrick knocked again. Since the Nigel Crane incident, Nick had been careful to hide his extra key in a spot that was notably difficult to find. Warrick found it to be an equal mixture of pathetic, funny and sad -- indicative of the times -- that Nick had actually buried the key in a plant pot. If you were that desperate to get in, you had to dig up the Gerbera daisies.

So he knocked. And knocked again.

Just as he was about to make a move for the Gerberas, he heard a familiar engine revving down. Nick's truck had never been the same after it had been stolen while working that wedding case. It had been funny, or so Warrick had heard from Sara and Greg.

Nick ambled up the sidewalk, staring off into the air, in an intangible direction. He seemed so oblivious, but also so hopeless. Maybe even so drunk...

Warrick turned around to fully face his friend. Something was wrong. Something _sounded _wrong. Then it occurred to him. The engine.

"Hey Nicky! You forgot to turn off the engine!"

Nick didn't even look up at him before replying. "Oh."

_This is odd,_ Warrick thought. _He didn't even seem to notice the oddness of my being here. It's like he expects voices in his head to point these kind of things out to him._ Warrick shook his head. Nick was really losing it.

He watched Nick fumble with his keys and finally get the door open. He seemed to be staring at the car, lost in thought. _Again. _The engine kept rumbling.

Warrick watched and waited.

Nick finally stuck the key in the ignition and turned in. Then he got in the car. And sat down. And closed the door.

_Nicky... What are you doing?_ Warrick rolled his eyes. He honestly didn't know how the man survived on a day-to-day basis. He just seemed so darn distracted.

The car started moving, and Warrick looked on in incredulity. _Is Nick stopping, or starting, or going somewhere, or what? He just got off shift, and he _clearly_ needs to be home and _sleeping_, not wandering around in his car. That's it, _Warrick thought, as he saw the car begin to inch backward, reversing out of its parking spot, and gently turning forward.

Warrick went running down the sidewalk. He waved his arms wildly, hoping Nick would notice. He banged on the glass, running to keep up with the car.

Finally, as Warrick was just about running out of breath, Nick looked over. Stopping, he smiled and waved at Warrick.

Warrick was glad Nick lived on a small parkway, with a notable lack of traffic, and that, at that hour, not many on the street were leaving their homes.

Nick backed up, almost crashing into Warrick, who dodged to avoid the big block of metal, seemingly controlled by a for-the-moment-maniac.

The truck inched diagonally and haphazardly back into the spot. It narrowly avoided touching the old red Volkswagen in front of it. Warrick didn't know how Nick would correct this parking job. Nick had always been a major perfectionist, especially when it came to parking. It made sense, for someone who cared as much as Nick did about his truck. It wasn't even new, or a particularly spiffy brand, but Nick treated that old truck like it was a bride on her wedding day. Nick finally took off his seatbelt and opened the door, even as the car was still parked skewed, with the front barely hitting the curb and the back nowhere near it. And, this time, he remembered to turn off the engine.

"Hey Warrick."

"You gonna park that thing right?"

Nick glared, quickly looking frustrated. "You already messed with my parking once today."

"You _left the engine on_, man. You should be saying _thank you_."

Nick glared.

"Well, thank you," he said sarcastically, raising his nose into a sneer.

Warrick quickly saw this strategy wasn't working. "Sorry, man. I know you've had a long day. I didn't mean to make it harder. Your parking's fine." _For someone who just got their first driving _permit. "I just know how much you care about your truck. Gotta make sure she stays in perfect condition."

Nick nodded glumly. "It's just a truck."

_Just a truck?! That was not something I ever expected to hear coming out of Nick Stokes' mouth._ "Just a truck, eh? Madeline the Fierce-Engined Chevrolet Glory?" Warrick still remembered the name Nick had given it, or rather, 'her.'

"Eh. Trucks don't have feelin's."

"That so?" Warrick asked, smirking. "How do you think she felt when you let her get stolen?"

"I didn't let her! It was Gre- Gre-" Nick trailed off.

_Okay. So the truck strategy, or whatever you'd call it, isn't working either. _"Hey, man. Let's go inside."

Nick nodded, looking down glumly again.

He followed Warrick to the door. Warrick felt almost as if it were his house, or as if he were Nick's parent, leading a reluctant Nick to his own door.

He felt like a jailer. It was as if Nick was imprisoned in his own house, in his own life. _Maybe that's why he was never home... but that was before he started acting this way. Hmmm..._

Warrick was thoroughly baffled by his friend's behavior. Then he caught Nick's glance. It was pointed at the bag still clutched in Warrick's hand. The backpack. With the contents of Greg's locker inside of it. _That could easily explain his behavior in the last few minutes. Though he hadn't even seen the bag when he got out of the car without turning off the engine... That's it. I'm thinking too much. What Nick needs right now is a friend to shoot the breeze with. A friend to _talk_ to. Not to be psychoanalyzed by._

His quandary resolved, Warrick smiled at his friend. "You watch the big game last week?"

Nick nodded.

_Finally. A guaranteed conversation starter. _"So what'd ya think?"

Nick stared blankly.

_Had he even been paying attention to the game?_ "That's it. We're gonna go in there, make some popcorn, kick back with some beers and watch SportsCenter. Okay?"

Nick nodded.

He seemed to let out what -- and Warrick was being hopeful, and honest when he thought this, but -- _Damn. That really looked like a genuine smile._ Warrick couldn't help but smile back, warmly and fully. A smile on Nick's face was one of the best things he'd seen in a while.

Warrick felt a sudden surge of overwhelming optimism, as he eagerly got out of the way for Nick to open the door, which he did, albeit quite slowly. _Slow or not, he's doing something. He's almost acting like a piece of the Nick I used to know. And that's worth being optimistic about. _"So, you got any beers?"

Nick nodded quickly, before walking off toward the kitchen. _And he's _walking_, not _trudging_ this time. Meaning he's moving faster, more eagerly, more happily. _

Warrick hoped he wasn't being too optimistic. It seemed that, these days, he interpreted every movement from Nick as a sign of improvement.

_Well, he can't do anything _other_ than improve. He sure can't get worse..._ Warrick thought, though he knew that probably wasn't even true. At least Nick was still showing up to work. At least he still knew how to do his job. _At least he's still breathing._

Nick returned, loosely clutching a full pack of Sam Adams. _Or is that _two _full packs of Sam Adams? _Warrick wondered, seeing the other hand hidden behind Nick's back. Warrick shrugged. _As long as he's doing something._

Nick squinted at the room, as if looking for something. He stared at the TV screen. It was blank.

"You lookin' for this?" Warrick asked, holding up the remote.

Warrick could see the realization dawn on Nick' face as he discovered the missing key to connect the mission of watching football with the blank screen in front of him. "The clicker!"

"You mean the remote?" Warrick chuckled at Nick's name for it.

"Clicker."

"It's called a remote, dude."

"Well, Greg calls it a clicker." Nick's face quickly tightened again.

_Uh oh. Wrong conversation starter again._ "Well, let's turn on the game now, huh?"

Nick nodded, reaching over for a beer. He seemed to be starting to turn it, oblivious to the obviously needed bottle opener.

"Ya lookin' for this?" Warrick said as he made his way to the kitchen and held up the opener. It was still in the same drawer Nick had used to store it in, when they hung out all the time, before Tina...

Nick nodded, smiling again. This smile was even bigger than the last, though Warrick was unsure if that was a good thing -- that, for all his and Catherine's efforts, Sam Adams beer would be the thing to prompt the biggest smile on Nick's face.

"Here, catch!" Warrick said, tossing the opener in Nick's direction.

Nick looked up, with concentration, and caught it. He grinned. "Mad skills." He popped open the bottle, and guzzled half of it in one sip, glancing up as Warrick turned on the game.

"Yeah, but you _know_ who was the better player back in the day," Warrick said, chuckling with relief at the progressively heightening mood.

Nick guffawed. "In your dreams. You really think UNLV had _anything_ on us Aggies?"

"Psh. We were the bomb."

"The bomb?"

"The bomb dot com."

Nick laughed.

Warrick noticed his friend had already polished off his first bottle. He still had the opener, so Warrick hadn't even been able to open his. "Hey! Pass it here!"

Nick glared, but playfully. "Nah. Not until you admit which team was better."

"You wish." Warrick was already savoring the long lost air of playful macho bravado. It had been too long since he and Nick had hung out like this. _If only I had thought of this sooner, maybe Nick wouldn't have gotten this bad._

Warrick leaned over, ready to tackle Nick for the bottle opener. For all of Nick's skills as a college quarterback, Warrick was the better wrestler of the two, and definitely with the superior tackling experience.

But suddenly, Nick balked. He glared -- not playfully this time -- and seemed to flinch at the sudden threat of contact, before handing the bottle opener over to Warrick wordlessly.

_Note to self: Avoid physical contact_. Warrick couldn't help but wonder if this had anything to do with what had happened a month ago. He'd never gotten the details of it from Catherine.

**

* * *

**

Warrick looked over at Nick. He was staring blankly forward. To the untrained eye, he looked like a zombie, entranced by the game -- basically like the standard American male.

But Warrick knew to follow Nick's gaze. In all his years as a CSI, he had learned to judge the angle of a person's irises and pupils, in order to see what, specifically, they were staring at. He followed Nick's stare. To the trash bin next to the TV.

"There somethin' in that trash bin you want?" Warrick asked.

"Nope. You?"

Warrick looked down at the table. They had been through the six pack. Nick had had four beers, while Warrick had only had two. Both had very high tolerances -- not necessarily a good thing, as Warrick had learned. The worst alcoholics tended to have the highest tolerances to alcohol.

Nonetheless, Nick might be borderline tipsy, even a bit drunk. The two word answer, when a shrug or shake of the head would have sufficed -- especially from Nick, who had been quite stoic for the last month -- meant that the liquor was definitely succeeding in loosening him up.

"So whatcha thinkin' 'bout the game?"

"Eh." Nick seemed to be contemplating it, then turned around with a grin. "We still rock. Better than your team."

Warrick chose not to point out that his team, or rather his adopted team, the Giants, was not even playing. Warrick had often switched between teams, among them the 49ers and the Raiders, before making his way through college largely on the proceeds of a bet that the Giants would win the 1990 Superbowl. In gratitude, he had quickly changed his allegiance. This game, however, was the Cowboys -- Nick's team -- against the Redskins.

Warrick was not a particular Redskins fan, but settled to rooting for them, for the game, just to have something else to bicker jokingly with Nick about. In truth, he had little preference between the Cowboys and Skins, but he knew the competitive cheering would do the most for Nick's spirit.

Warrick leaned back on the couch and sighed. "You just got lucky."

"Luck? Look at the score, man." Sure enough, the scoreboard read a margin of three touchdowns.

"We're going through a transition. I mean -- coaching is major. When Joe Gibbs was at the top of his game, we coulda kicked your asses any day."

"Psh. It's not all in the coaching staff, doofus. It's in the players. It's in the recruitment. It's in the _fans_. And _nobody_ competes with Cowboys fans."

"Psh. Man, have you_ not_ been to DC? They definitely have the fans."

Nick seemed to ponder the situation over. "Wait -- since when are you even a Skins fan?"

"Since they're playin' the Cowboys," Warrick responded, matter-of-factly.

"Psh."

"Hey," Warrick said, reaching for the speaker system. "Let's get us some music to drown out the _bullshit_ I hear echoing from the Dallas side over here."

Nick turned it on, and Warrick groaned as Keith Urban sounded through the house.

"Not this _crap_."

"Aw, come on man. If you don't like this... " -- a more-than-a-bit-tipsy Nick struggled for the word, before failing -- "well, good, _amazing_ music, then you can just..." He scrunched up his nose. "Get out."

Warrick rolled his eyes. "That or I can actually _walk_ up to the speaker and manually change it myself." He looked down, smirking, at Nick. "'Cause I _know_ you're not gonna be gettin' up too gracefully 'bout now."

Nick scowled, as Warrick got up to change it back to Oldies.

As Diana Ross's soprano drifted through the room, Warrick got up, smiling.

_If humiliating myself is what it takes to get Nicky to have a good time, then so be it._

He started to swing his hips.

"_But how many heartaches_," he crooned. "_Must I stand before I find a love, to let me live again_?"

Nick looked up, questioningly.

He began to snap. "_Right now the only thing, that keeps me hangin' on --_"

Nick raised an eyebrow.

And then, Warrick belted it. "_When I feel the strength, yeah, it's almost gone, I remember Mama said!_"

Tipsy enough, Nick couldn't hold back his laughter anymore.

"_You can't hurry love_," Warrick slurred the speedy chorus. "_No, you just have to wait! She said love don't come easy. It's a game of give and take_."

_You can't hurry love_

_No, you just have to wait_

Warrick squeaked as he reached the high notes. He knew he wasn't a Supreme. He knew there was a reason he wasn't a Supreme.

_She said love don't come easy_

_It's a game of give and take_

By the time Warrick had finished, Nick was rolling on his stomach on the couch.

"Hey," Warrick said, getting Nick's attention. "It's your turn now."

Nick gave a look of true horror. "You really think I know the lyrics to this stuff?!"

Warrick rolled his eyes. "Seriously, who doesn't know Motown? It's _classic_," he said, as the familiar chiming filled the room. "Give it a try."

Nick, still chuckling, rolled over off of his stomach, trying to listen to the lyrics.

_Listen, baby_

_Ain't no mountain high_

Nick finally started singing. It was an easy song.

_Ain't no valley low_

_Ain't no river wide enough, baby_

The singing became slower. Then he sniffled, and stopped. Warrick sighed, turning to face the stereo. The 'Nick singing' idea wasn't working. But the overall idea was. Nick was _still_ laughing. But now his laughter was sounding different...

_If you need me, call me_

_No matter where you are_

Warrick turned around, to see the tears falling down Nick's face. _Those are not tears of joy or laughter,_ Warrick acknowledged with a sigh. _How the hell did this happen?_

_No matter how far_

The music continued, and Nick continued crying. Sobbing.

_Just call my name_

He looked so angry, so desperate.

_I'll be there in a hurry_

Warrick had no idea what to do. He had no idea what had caused this. _Well, logically, Marvin Gaye and Tammi Terrell's duet caused it._ But that just didn't seem right.

_You don't have to worry_

_'Cause baby,_

Nick started sobbing harder. At last, Warrick reached to turn off the stereo, but Nick's hand stopped him. He put a hand on Nick's back, but the man just shrugged it off. The whole scene scared Warrick. A lot. He moved toward Nick's bedroom.

_There ain't no mountain high enough_

Warrick pulled out his phone, and called the number on speed dial.

"Willows."

"Cath, I --" he stuttered out.

_Ain't no valley low enough_

_Ain't no river wide enough_

_To keep me from getting to you_

"What's wrong, Rick?" she asked, concerned.

"I -- I--"

_Remember the day_

_I set you free_

He reached for the door, closing it and hoping to drown out the music. 'Aint No Mountain' just didn't seem appropriate at the moment, though shutting the door didn't work entirely.

"Are you alright?!"

"Yeah," he said, trying to regain his breath.

She heaved a sigh of relief.

"It's Nicky."

She sighed again, though not with relief this time. "What happened?"

"He's losin' it."

"Isn't he always?"

"Probably."

"You think there's anything you can do?"

Warrick looked back at his friend. The sobbing seemed to be decreasing. In fact, it seemed as if it were being progressively replaced with snoring.

_Ain't no mountain --_

Warrick shut the door again. "No."

"You're at his house?"

"Yeah."

"Go home."

"I just drank two beers."

"I'll be there in 15."

"Thanks, Cath."

"No problem." She paused. "And nice try," she said, knowing full well that Warrick had put in the effort that night.

"Thanks."

"See ya there."

"Yup. See ya here."

"Is that Marvin Gaye in the background?"

"And Tammi Terrell."

"Good taste."

"It's a good channel."

She chuckled and hung up.

_"Don't you know that_

_There ain't no mountain high enough_

_Ain't no valley low enough_

_Ain't no river wide enough_

_To keep me from getting to you."_

* * *

**Author's Note:** Thanks to QueenOfTheUniverse, LostLadyKnight, Meg, Atticus, Longas91 and Marifw for reviews on the last chapter.

So what did you guys think of the song? Appropriate or overly songfic-y? Also, I said there would be a reward for anyone who solves the mystery of this chapter. In 'For Warrick,' the winner got to name a character. So, the mystery is... who is the girl at the grocery store? Whoever guesses it right either a) gets to name a character that appears later in the story or b) gets a preview of the next chapter. Leave your guess, with 2 names (1 male and 1 female).

The issue I'm always most concerned with in my stories is pacing, seeing as that tends to be my weakness. I would LOVE feedback on how the pacing is working so far in the story, especially in the last three chapters.

~Harper


	9. Las Relaciones a Escondidas, Part 1

_................................._

_Salvar: to save, to overcome, to preserve, to rescue, to cover, to pass_

_Salvarse: to survive, to escape_

_................................._

Author's Note: The title translates roughly to 'Hidden Relationships.' Standard disclaimers apply. Betaed by LaughableBlackStorm. Enjoy, and Happy Holidays!

* * *

CHAPTER 9: LAS RELACIONES A ESCONDIDAS, Part 1

They sat in silence on the way home, but it was a comfortable silence. Warrick couldn't help but feel a little guilty. After all, Catherine was driving him home because he was too drunk to drive. But he knew she didn't mind in this case. His mission had been a righteous one.

Catherine broke the silence. "He's not getting any better. You know that, right?"

"Yeah. I caught onto that when he broke down crying halfway through Marvin Gaye and Tammi Terrell."

"Figured as much."

"The song?"

"And the crying."

"How's that?"

"Because you couldn't handle it. You sounded out of your mind. And, I mean, you're Warrick. Breaking down isn't exactly your thing."

Warrick chuckled. "Most of the time."

"I mean it. You're a rock."

"I thought Grissom was the rock."

Catherine only needed to ponder that for a second before responding. "No, Grissom's ice."

"And how is that?"

Catherine continued. "When temperatures change -- when something happens that irks Grissom for whatever reason --"

Warrick delivered a fake cough, mumbling, "Sara."

Catherine chuckled. "Exactly. When that happens, Grissom melts."

"He loses his cool!" Warrick laughed again, slightly louder than he would have were he not on the tipsy side. He probably wouldn't have said that at all, and certainly with as much enthusiasm, were it not for the alcohol surging slowly through his veins.

Catherine just chuckled again. "True. He really does. Nice pun, Warrick," she said, reaching across the seat to give him a high five.

"Thanks, Cath."

"Anyways, while Grissom melts -- becomes something else from the heat --"

"In all of his chemical change of state."

"Yep. You get it," she affirmed. "But rocks? Rocks don't melt."

"Unless the temperature gets _really_ hot."

"True, but it takes a lot."

"Technically, anything _can_ melt at _some_ temperature, but it happens very rarely and could easily never happen in the lifetime of any given piece of an element or compound with a particularly high specific heat."

"You sound like Wendy. But you got it exactly. Just like, in the most extreme situation, even you could lose it."

"Like tonight?"

"Like tonight."

They sat in silence for a few minutes. Warrick hardly fidgeted to reach for the music. He had had enough for the night.

Catherine, clearly uneasy, finally broke the silence again.

"I... talked to Grissom."

Warrick looked up, patiently waiting for her to explain.

"Big news." Her tone betrayed that the news was by no means positive, and Warrick nodded, savoring the moments before whichever impending disaster struck with Catherine's next words.

"Greg's case got closed."

"Shit."

"My sentiments exactly."

"They found the guys?"

Catherine shook her head. A thin sliver of her bottom lip was clenched harshly in her teeth. The display of concern, unusual for Catherine, looked like it might be the only thing holding back tears.

"Shit," Warrick repeated. "Greg's body?"

She shook her head again.

"We've gotta tell Nicky."

She nodded.

"Do you want to drag along Mr. Icy?"

She choked back a strange laugh-dry-sob hybrid, relieved for the levity. "That might be a questionable tactic."

"Yeah."

Catherine pulled up outside Warrick's apartment.

Warrick opened the door, but was stopped by a question.

"You wanna go talk to him tomorrow?"

"Hmmm..." Warrick rolled the idea over.

"You're gonna have to stop by his house to get your car anyways."

"True. But speaking of cars --"

"Need a ride to work?"

"You read my mind."

"That's what I do."

"I thought that was what _Greg_ did. He kept talkin' 'bout how his gramma was a psychic an' even swapped for a case at the psychic -- Oops. Forget I said that."

"No."

"No?"

"No."

Warrick looked at her questioningly.

"We can't just forget about him entirely," Catherine explained. "Don't you think he'd want to be remembered, and for all the wonderful things about him, not the way he died? It's not like we're going to forget _that_." She said the last sentence in a lowered, painful voice, which Warrick took as a sign to change the topic. He hadn't _been there_ when Greg was killed.

"So," he broke her from her sorrowed train of thought.

"I'll pick you up at 7."

"Awesome. And we'll stop by Nicky's to talk to him after shift? Unless we can fit it in during shift, preferably towards the end."

"Sounds good."

"And that way I can get my car, too."

"Aw, you don't wanna keep me company some more?"

"I've always loved your company, Cath," Warrick said with a grin as he closed the door.

"But, like all of the XY persuasion, you love your car more."

Warrick chuckled, letting Catherine take his non-answer for an affirmation.

"See you tomorrow, bright and early!"

"Heh. Dark and early!"

"Gotta love night shift."

"Damn straight. See ya then."

* * *

_THE CASINO_

_Catherine stared back at Ari._

_"What sad circumstances to meet an old friend," she remarked, humorlessly._

_He nodded, and she could see the pain in his eyes. _

_"Why? Why are you doing this, Ari?"_

_"For Tam."_

_She was shocked by the answer. "Since when do you have the right to kill in his name?! Wasn't killing _him_ enough?!" _

_She knew the words were harsh, and not those generally helpful in a hostage situation, when spoken to the hostage holder that held her and her colleagues' lives in his hands. _

_At the same time, however, despite everything Ari had done, she still couldn't imagine him hurting a flea. Even though he'd killed Tam, his lover and best friend, she still couldn't reconcile the idea of the murder with the present situation and any leftover potential for violence. In her mind, he was still the man promising to protect and love Tam forever. He was still _Ari_. _

_He sighed sadly, again. "You don't know what you're talking about, Cath." His voice was pure resignation, and she didn't dispute his right to call her by her nickname. _

_"Why Greg?" she asked, this time more quietly. She could even, almost, see similarities between Ari's late boyfriend and her colleague now lying prostrate on the casino's dusty floor. They had the same light in their eyes -- the same youthful, optimistic twinkle of potential and innocence. Or at least they _had_ had it._

_Hurting Greg hardly seemed like the appropriate way to memorialize Tam._

_Cath shuddered as she remembered the blood surrounding Tam that night. The blood all over Ari's hand... The blood splayed out over the corpse of her friend, in the newspaper pictures..._

_Ari turned away, as if reading the morbid memories replaying in her mind. But then he turned toward Greg and Nick. And Catherine recognized the handkerchief that Nick held over Greg's stab wound. The handkerchief was covered in blood -- fresh and long dried up and browned. And it had the initials: OTJ. _

_Ari was a ball of fire, exploding toward Greg and Nick -- especially toward the prostrate man, lying in the same pool of blood, on the same stretch of floor, holding the same bloodied handkerchief._

_At that moment, she knew it wouldn't end well, but she hadn't quite realized how bad it would get -- what cruelty 25 years in prison made Ari Marvin capable of inflicting._

_Catherine could see the crazy look in Ari's eyes as he turned around to face Greg, and it scared her. Greg groaned as he tried to shift up onto his elbows and backwards, away from the man, but it was clearly no use. _

_"Ari, stop!" Catherine yelled. Nick made a move toward Greg, as if trying to stand in Ari's way._

_"Aw, Ari, we finally gonna get a piece of action out of this one? We're gonna hafta kill him anyways. He's gonna have one of our DNA or whatever on him after kickin' his ass. Might as well have some fun first."_

_Greg paled at the comment, and Catherine could see the same look echoed on Nick's terrified face._

_Ari came closer, as Greg squirmed slowly backwards. Ari leaned over to run a hand down Greg's face. Greg whimpered. The hand settled on Greg's jaw before clenching around his neck. Greg gasped in shock and pain._

_All of the sudden, Ari turned around to snarl at Catherine, finally releasing his hand on Greg's neck. "Take care of this!" Catherine could see the pain in his eyes. "Make sure we get out of here. Do whatever you need."_

_Catherine nodded in response. She could see it in his eyes. Prison, or maybe even Tam's death, had broken Ari. There was no telling what he was capable of now._

_"Make sure we get out of here," he said, eyes still crazy. "Or he goes down with us," he added, pointing at Greg. _

_Catherine gulped, nodding in response. Greg looked back at both of them with terrified eyes.  
_

_"And make sure Mr. Jared gets down here also. It's either revenge against Mr. Jared..." He gestured at Greg again. "Or against this one."_

_Catherine nodded, shocked, and pulled out her phone. She knew Ari meant business, especially given the leers of his co-conspirators. It made her sick._

_Ari gently helped her sit down, though she was still separated from Greg and Nick._

_"And you can only call one person."_

_Catherine nodded._

_There were only three people Catherine knew she could call. The obvious choice would have been Grissom. But then she remembered the distracted gaze covering his face for the past few months_. Ever since Sara left_, she thought sadly. _

_Brass would also be a good choice. Then again, Brass had a tendency of being too tough, and toughness was not what was needed in this case. Catherine knew, from personal experience, that that wouldn't help solve the problem, not when Ari was involved._

_Warrick would have been the worst choice of the three. He had been off for a few months, much like Grissom. Nick seemed convinced that Warrick was more 'off,' but Catherine knew better. It wasn't that Warrick was more distracted. He was just worse at hiding it. Grissom, on the other hand, was a very guarded person. He rarely expressed emotions, let alone signs of his personal troubles. That the entire nightshift had figured out that something was wrong with Grissom was, in itself, a sign of just how far off his game the older man had fallen. _

_Rumors had been going around about the younger CSI for about as long as he'd been on the force. 'He's a gambler,' people said. 'He's an addict.' 'He's got too much goin' on with him.' The last one had been said by Jim Brass, and the former two by police officers. But Catherine couldn't help but remember back, many years, to the day that Ellie Brass had come around. Grissom had been out, with a case or sabbatical, Catherine couldn't remember which. Warrick had been the one to handle it. Warrick had told Catherine later that day, in shock, of Grissom's words. _

_"When I leave CSI, there won't be any cake in the break room. I'll just be gone. So I wanted to see if you could step in."_

_They had always assumed that the reason there wouldn't be cake when Grissom left would be that cake didn't seem as appropriate for funerals. Grissom's funeral would only work with chocolate-covered ants. And Grissom, as the whole team knew, would not leave the lab until death. It was a marriage of love, and Grissom, still at least part Catholic at heart, seemed to take 'til death do us part' very seriously. But, then again, Catherine thought, that was all before Sara, or at least before she became romantically involved with the supervisor. _

_Nonetheless, despite the troubles in Warrick's past, he had been Grissom's choice as 'takeover guy.' And Catherine could tell that, though Grissom hadn't left the lab, his heart wasn't really there anymore. Instead, it was in San Francisco, or wherever Sara was at the moment. _

_Catherine didn't just need someone who could stay calm in any situation. Grissom _did_ put a lot of energy into keeping his cool, and could probably do the same if she called him. But she needed someone with a different kind of calmness, someone who could keep everyone else calm as well._

_She reached for the appropriate button on speed dial._

_"Cath?"_

"_Rick!" she edged out. A loud noise distracted her, and she looked over to see Biggs and Richie trying to handcuff Nick, who was putting up quite a fight. Finally, Biggs moved toward Greg. Nick stilled the moment he saw Biggs straddle a helpless, wounded Greg. Catherine gulped back her fear, hoping it was only a show. _

_Putting her hand over her cell phone, she murmured to Ari, "Please. Leave him alone."_

_"We'll leave him alone if you do your job."_

_Catherine nodded, feeling the pressure increase. Her shoulders drooped._

_"Suspect returned to scene. Multiple suspects."_

_Ari reached for the cell phone, shutting it between his hands quickly._

_Catherine looked up, puzzled. She had to explain to Warrick the situation either way. If she wanted the van to come, she'd have to explain what had happened._

_"Sorry," Ari said coldly. "I can't have them tracing the signal to the exact room. You have a walkie-talkie?"_

_Catherine nodded, pulling it out._

_Her fingers found the appropriate buttons on the walkie-talkie._

_"Brown?"_

_"Warrick --"_

_"Cath! Are you alright?!"_

_She hesitated. "I'm fine. For now. Just... we need an escape vehicle."_

_"For who?"_

_"Them."_

_"I was afraid that would be your answer."_

_Catherine sighed, wincing at the pain it seemed to cause her wounded shoulder._

_"You okay?"_

_Catherine took another deep breath. "For now... Bullet," she said, wincing again._

_"Shit."_

_"Yeah.. My sentiments exactly."_

_She could hear Warrick chuckle on the other line. She could feel the soothing effect of his voice already._

_"Can you... try to get it? The vehicle, I mean?"_

_"Yeah. I'll try."_

_A nudge to her uninjured shoulder drew her attention. Ari looked down, gaze unreadable. "Bruce Jared had better be in the car."_

_Catherine glared. "He already lost his son thanks to you, Ari."_

_Ari's cold poker face broke for a moment, revealing pure rage. "Mind your own business, Cath!" The words were vicious and loud, startling Catherine and the others in the room._

_"F-fine," she muttered, waiting for her breathing to slow down. She picked up the walkie-talkie again. "Warrick?"_

_"Bruce Jared, owner of the Tangiers?" She could barely hear the incredulity he was obviously holding back._

_"Yeah," she replied despondently, knowing the likelihood of that particular demand being met._

_"I'll do my best."_

_"Thanks, Rick."_

_"No problem."_

_She knew 'no problem' didn't exactly summarize the situation, but it was so Warrick to say it anyways._

_She set the walkie talkie down, and sat calmly, waiting for a resolution._

_That was when Greg inched over to look at her. He reached for a hand with surprising strength. _

_She crawled over to the youngest CSI. Ari didn't seem to mind. _

_Greg motioned for Catherine's head and she leaned down. She could see the desperation in his eyes, and the pain in his voice._

_"Promise you won't tell anyone."_

_She looked down, questioning. _

_"Please. No matter what happens. Don't tell anyone about us -- Nick and I. Especially not Warrick."_

_Catherine nodded. _

* * *

PRESENT

Warrick watched Nick in the locker room; the Texan stared down at a case file even as he tied his shoes. _So much for off the clock_.

Nick had always been passionate about his cases. But he'd been able to put them down. What Warrick saw in front of him wasn't even passion. It was obsession. It was a distraction -- an angry burning kettle to stick on the front burner, in the hopes that it would whistle loud enough to drown out whatever it was Nick was trying to avoid.

_Greg_. It dawned on him. _Where are you now, man? How'd you leave my best friend so crushed? _He stared again at Nick, who was now on to the bottom of the next page in his case, his shoelaces largely neglected, with one only half-tied. _What _happened_ to you, man? What set them off so much? Where are you? _Who_ are you?_

Warrick never felt like he had known Greg that well, and he regretted it. He wished he could go back in time, to befriend the man more.

Then again, if he had, perhaps he would be as torn as Nick was now.

Catherine and Warrick were holding the team together as Nick dealt with his grief, and Grissom with his normal people problems, compounded by some form of heartbreak at Sara's departure.

And Warrick knew Catherine didn't have it all together. She had, after all, been there when Greg was killed. She had watched as Nick pleaded. She had been talking to Warrick with the walkie-talkie, trying to negotiate a deal through which they could all emerge unscathed.

And she had failed. They had both failed.

Warrick knew that failure had to be hitting Catherine hard, even as she focused on the two men falling apart around her. Warrick, he knew, was the most unscathed by the incident, and he was grateful for that. He had no idea what would have happened -- how far they all would have sunk -- if he hadn't been there to keep it all together.

He had, in fact, been on his own sinking ship for a while, with Tina and the divorce, and the pills.

After the incident, however, he had changed his tone. Tina stopped mattering. The pills that kept him awake, and the ones that got him to sleep, and the ones that kept him happy all became irrelevant.

His entire focus was on keeping the team together, and his own problems just stopped mattering.

He still, occasionally, took pills -- amphetamines. He had a feeling what he was doing might even be construed as abuse.

He knew he didn't need them to help him focus. He was already focused -- very focused. The team was his life after that incident, at least more so than before, and he didn't need a pill to remind him of that.

A phone call interrupted the moment of peace and thought -- a moment he felt very privileged to have at the rather hectic present. He got too few free moments these days.

He flicked his phone open. "Hi, Amy."

"Hi, Warrick. I can't make tonight," she said in a glum, yet nonchalant tone. He could almost hear her popping bubble gum in the background. "Have fun," she said, hanging up before Warrick even had a chance to reply.

"Wait -- what?" A dial tone responded to his confused query.

Glaring at his phone screen, he hung up. _Well, that was weird. She sounded angry, like it was my fault, or like I should have expected it._ He snapped his phone shut. _And what did she mean by 'Have fun tonight'?_

He shook his head, totally baffled by his girlfriend. _This just isn't working. _He contemplated calling her back and asking what she'd meant, or_ why_ exactly she was blowing him off this time, but refrained. He could find better ways to spend his night, or rather late afternoon, anyways.

"I hope he's the same again, someday."

He didn't need to turn around to acknowledge her. He continued to stare into the locker room as he replied to Catherine.

"He has to be. People get over stuff like this all the time. It just takes time. I don't know what it is that's makin' it so hard for him. I guess it's that he hasn't had to deal with death as much as a lot of people."

Catherine gave him a quizzical glance, even chuckling. "Because he's clearly never seen a dead body before?"

Warrick chuckled himself. "Okay, good point. But you know what I mean. Those are anonymous deaths, at least to us. And we see them _after_ they're already dead. We don't have to deal with our best friends dying, let alone being there for it."

Catherine looked up at him, searching. "So you think Greg was Nick's best friend?"

Warrick looked down, slightly puzzled by the question. "I guess so... I mean, it seems like they've gotten pretty close in recent years, ya know?"

Catherine just nodded slightly. "Just wondering."

"I mean, they must have been best friends for Nick to take it so hard, right?"

"Yeah, definitely. They must have been best friends."

"Why?"

"Oh, just wondering." Catherine paused. "I mean, I'm tryin' to figure it out just like you are."

"Sure," Warrick nodded. There was so much figuring out to do with the man he had used to call a best friend. "There's a lot left to figure, I'd say."

Nick finally emerged from his files, as the clock ticked for the beginning of the next shift. Catherine and Warrick could hear his stomach growling, as if on cue. They both stifled laughs. Nick looked up, obliviously at first, before scowling at them.

"You two want somethin'?"

"Nah, you just sound hungry, man. When's the last time you ate?"

Nick shrugged his shoulders. In all their efforts to keep Nick going, Catherine and Warrick had paid less attention to his eating habits. They figured that a guy like him couldn't exactly forget to eat, but apparently they'd been wrong.

"Hey, Nicky," Catherine started. "How 'bout we take you out to eat?"

"Actually, I had a whole dinner planned out for Amy, before she cancelled. Why don't we just make it a group dinner?"

"That sounds nice, actually. Haven't had one of those in a _long_ while." _Like since Sara left and Greg died..._ "Okay," said Warrick sheepishly. "I'm just not so sure my apartment's in great shape for a big get-together."

"Not in shape for a team dinner, but in shape for a _date_? Do you not remember the three D's of working CSI?"

Warrick chuckled. "You underestimate me, Cath. Dead bodies, dumpsters and..." He jokingly scratched his head. "Decomp."

"Good work. You're better than I thought, Brown. Now do you _really_ think _we_ would be grossed out by your apartment?"

Warrick chuckled. "It's not that big. Hey, actually, if you wanna offer up your house as the spot -- it is closer to everyone -- _then_ we have a deal. How 'bout that?"

"Sounds good," Catherine said with a grin. She turned around to find that the third participant in their conversation had already left. Nick was gathering his things in the locker room. "Hey, Nicky! We're headed over to my place. Got it?"

Nick shrugged apathetically. "Sure. Sounds fine, Mom."

Catherine rolled her eyes. "You wanna tell Grissom, or should I?"

Warrick grinned. "You volunteered your house, so I'll go tell the bug man."

"Be my guest. I'll go track down Wendy."

* * *

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Thanks to Longas91, Marifw, Meg, Atticus, SE, Brillows4Ever and LittleWing for reviews on the last chapter! Someone guessed the mystery supermarket girl correctly, though I'm not gonna reveal yet who guessed it, or who she was yet. Unfortunately, you guys get to find out with Warrick, in chapter 16.

;)

Harper

As for now...

You are getting very sleepy... (cue hypnotist)... the review button calls you...


	10. La Cena

_................................._

_Salvar: to save, to overcome, to preserve, to rescue, to cover, to pass_

_Salvarse: to survive, to escape_

_................................._

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Thanks to LaughableBlackStorm for beta and to you -- all of my lovely readers (and especially reviewers) -- for sticking with this story. Thanks to Meg, QueenOfTheUniverse, Marifw, LostLadyKnight, PugNTurtle and Atticus for reviews on the last chapter. To questions posed on the last chapter, I promise it will eventually be revealed why Greg didn't want Warrick to know about Nick and Greg's relationship. Title translates to 'The Dinner'. Enjoy!

* * *

CHAPTER 10: LA CENA

Grissom watched the bustle in the kitchen quietly.

In all his years working with Warrick and Catherine, he had never quite appreciated their cooking prowess. Or at least he had assumed that Warrick had cooked the potatoes, fish and green beans. Wendy had challenged that theory, teasingly, saying she'd seldom met a straight man capable of cooking anything that smelled that good.

Catherine had pursed her lips thoughtfully -- surprisingly thoughtfully for Catherine, who always spoke her mind, and still managed to say all the right things -- and replied that they had no real proof of Warrick's sexuality.

Wendy, of course, only needed to utter one word: "Tina."

But Catherine had a quicker reply planned to that. "I don't think that skank is proof of anything. She -- or it -- would have to be human."

Nick, of course, had already shied away from the conversation. He was poised in front of a photo frame, staring intently. Or, at least, it looked as if he were staring intently. Grissom really couldn't tell.

He took pride in his objective, observational skills, but when it came to condensing those observations to make a final assessment -- a less than objective judgment -- he was often stuck. He was used to letting the evidence, along with Detective Brass's hunches and the words of witnesses, persons of interest and suspects, do the talking and fitting the puzzle pieces together. The evidence alone painted a picture, but never a clear enough one for a solid venture deserving of Gil Grissom's confidence.

That said, he had a few hypotheses floating through his unusual cerebral strands and cortexes as he watched his team's motions throughout the kitchen.

The room itself was rectangular and narrow, with pale yellow tiling surrounding the occasional, geometrically placed square tile with a central blue floral design. Like Catherine, the tiling seemed simple and classy. Appropriate.

Flooring was not something Grissom had always been one to judge. It contradicted his objective nature, and, Sara had said, his manly nonaesthetics. He had replied with lightly veiled irritation in a rare show of temper, that nonaesthetics was not a word. He remembered how he still loved it when she had rolled her eyes. Somehow, the lack of dark, sepia irises always darting around had seemed to bring out the perfect symmetry of her eyes.

He silently chastised himself for becoming distracted by his own irrelevant thoughts and memories. His job today was not to recall his own losses. It was to assess the damage; to watch his team interact in what was the closest setting to a vacuum that he could hope for. The whole team, standing together, except for him, of course. And except for Greg. Then again, circumstances with Greg could no longer be mimicked. _That_ experiment was lost.

Sara, too. The departure of the love of his life forever tainted the dynamics of the team.

Then again, the losses of those particular members could prove the causes of many of the behaviors observed in the team members. It was likely that Wendy's venture into the field was in part the result of the departure of two other CSIs. Sara's loss could easily have initially triggered Ecklie and the undersheriff's subtle hints regarding a need for a larger night shift. After all, the team grew slower upon losing the additional member.

Greg's loss, of course, had exacerbated the crumbling clearance rates. Though he had been only a CSI level one, his presence was certainly felt, if for no other reason than he had often brought smiles to his coworkers' faces.

His death was more brutal, and unexpected. He was dead, and the result, of course, had a finality to it, one that Sara's departure had not provoked.

The team had always known that Sara had her issues. Furthermore, she had initially come as a temporary replacement. Most importantly, it was still possible for her to come back. It was no longer possible for Greg to do so, at least not as anything more than a corpse. In his mind, Grissom could not help but calculate the likely rate of decomposition in the stagnant remains of the formerly wild, restless CSI 1.

When the maggots in his mind moved to the familiar dark chestnut eyes, he cut off the vision, chastising his own perversions. He was, at times, too much the scientist. He grimaced. The impact of past losses could be analyzed later. The dinner presented a priceless and unrepeatable trial, one he should pay careful mind to.

He stared impassively across the table and into the kitchen. Thanks to its narrow layout, which ran perpendicular to the dining room he sat in, he could see all the action in there. He was grateful.

Warrick stood closest to the entryway, leaning over the green beans. Grissom was grateful for their proximity, as he was lavishing in the delightful smell of the sautéing garlic. He took another whiff of the smell -- apparently not subtly enough, as Wendy, who was facing the other counter while carefully slicing a loaf of baguette, seemed to pick up on his thoughts from the slight sound.

"I know, right? You can never go wrong with sautéing garlic. It always smells divine. That and onions." Her voice seemed a little fast. Almost anxious. Grissom could hypothesize on the causes later.

Catherine, delicately shifting to switch places with Warrick and check the oven underneath the stovetop, shook her head slowly and calmly, signaling her agreement.

"That's how Warrick gets the girls, by shows his cooking smarts. All ya got to do is make the right smells, and they'll think you know what you're doing."

She leaned up from the lit oven, wrinkling her brows slightly before lighting up. _Most likely_, Grissom hypothesized, _that means the bird is going well_.

Warrick smiled as Catherine gracefully moved up and to his left, toward the dish drain and out of his way. "There are _so_ many other ways I do that."

"Get the girls?" Wendy asked, chuckling. "Or prove your cooking cred?" She leaned in, inspecting the cut of the bread carefully.

She was the most meticulous bread cutter Grissom had ever seen. Licking her lips, she leaned in further toward the chopping board, measuring what looked to be a quarter of an inch into the bread with the tip of her finger, before slicing down slowly.

Grissom knit his brows, wishing she would do so more swiftly, with less calculation. The trick to slicing bread, as Wendy did not seem to know, was to do it quickly enough to slice through in one motion, so that the bread slice would come out even, with straight edges.

But, in his effort to merely observe the situation, as well as his own introversion, he declined the option of commenting aloud. He could worry about his advisory role later, in the field. Helping Wendy become a CSI was different than helping her become a proficient bread slicer.

A new odor interrupted his observations. Catherine bent down as Warrick dropped the spatula he was holding, carefully setting it against the rim of the frying pan filled with darkening green beans and the sweet, yet, in the best way, bitter garlic. The door to the oven popped open and, in one strong motion, Catherine reached in, oven mitts lightly clutched in her hands. The turkey emerged quickly, still steaming, and barely missed brushing against Warrick, whose eyes still half-lingered on the frying pan's bubbling garlic and oil, but he didn't even flinch as the heavy metal tin baring the bird came close.

The bird looked wonderful. Hearing his stomach growl, Grissom tuned his ears to the banter now coming from the room.

Even Nick finally turned around, moving away from the picture frame to cast deep eyes at the poultry that was emerging from the oven and emitting a delightful, warm odor.

_Catherine sure knows how to cook a bird_, Grissom thought.

The kitchen looked too crowded as Nick made his way back into it. Catherine seemed comfortable in her own kitchen and Warrick, despite his hefty 6'2" frame, was also at ease.

Wendy, though graceful and light on her feet, was hunched over in concentration, elbows bent stiffly. Occasionally, her eyes darted around quickly and carefully, trying to avoid detection. She reminded Grissom of a student taking a test, while carefully checking for classmates' answers.

Nick, meanwhile, looked equally awkward, but, unlike Wendy, anything but concentrating. He almost seemed to be wavering in the non-existent wind of Catherine's kitchen.

_If Greg were here,_ Grissom thought, _he would make a joke about making wind._ He chuckled sadly.

Wendy looked up, immediately alert, or rather more alert than previously. "What's so funny, Griss?"

_Damn, she's sharp, _Grissom thought, sighing with frustration.

Wendy raised an eyebrow, and Catherine turned around to stare at Grissom. She seemed to have caught on with Wendy's query, and raised an eyebrow as well, in near identical fashion. Grissom nearly chuckled at the sight of the two women. Warrick slowed his stirring of the green beans to cast an eye at the exchange.

Nick, of all people, saved him from responding. "You guys have the same eyebrows." It was a blunt statement, but Catherine chuckled in relief, just to hear something vaguely happy and humorous coming from Nick's mouth. Grissom barely caught Warrick scowling at Catherine over his shoulder, not needing to watch the hand holding the spoon. _Expert hand-eye coordination_, thought Grissom sardonically.

Warrick, as if reading Grissom's mind, looked back to the green beans, as Grissom leaned back in his chair. It was a standstill.

Catherine ignored Warrick's scowl. With expert conflict-resolution skills, she reached over to grab the pan of green beans, even as the other hand clutched the bird, still fresh out of the oven.

"Hey," Warrick said, glaring lightly.

"Let's go sit down," she replied with a smile. "I'd say dinner's ready." She directed her gaze to the green beans, which did look to be cooked to perfection.

Warrick reached for the mashed potatoes, still staying warm on the back burner. Wendy gathered the neatly arranged bread, along with the crostini, and followed Warrick carefully to the table.

"Hey, Grissom?" Grissom looked up startled as Catherine waved a hand in front of his face, or rather a frying pan full of green beans, since that was what was in her right hand. "You just gonna sit there staring, or you gonna help?"

Grissom knew his responding expression resembled a deer caught in the headlights. "What do you need help with?"

"Set out some coasters or something to put these on, will ya?"

Grissom nodded, looking around the room. He reached for a set of purple ceramic... well, square-looking things. He forgot what Sara had called them. Seeing that there were only two, he found three more brownish yellow ones, seemingly of a similar material.

Catherine scowled. "Grissom, those don't even match."

He scowled back, before seeing Nick unearth a set of four in green.

"Nice job, Nicky," she said with a smile.

_Coddling_, Grissom thought to himself, only slightly annoyed at himself for failing the match test yet again. _Even Sara would have done better. _He sighed. _No thinking about Sara. That's an order, Gil Grissom._

After helping spread the placemats, plates and silverware out, he was able to quickly return to his observations. He resisted the urge to say blessings, as he had learned years ago as a young Catholic, but saw Warrick take over the task anyways. The blessing was said quietly, but Warrick's deep, rich and commanding voice made it work. In a matter of seconds -- _maybe even less than a second_ --the food was making quick rounds around the table.

Grissom served himself moderate portions of each dish, surreptitiously glancing around every few seconds to continue his observations.

_What_, he thought, _would be the proper trigger, to set off a reaction capable of exposing the underbelly of the team's problems? _Typical conversation starters, he thought, would not quite work. He rattled off a few in his head. _Weather -- too boring; sports -- only Nick and Warrick know sports; work? Everyone's tired of work, unless there's some new news..._

"So, is this a congratulatory dinner?"

Nick stared up, his face as blank as ever. Warrick and Catherine's faces held mild curiosity, Catherine's showing more apparent on her non-poker face. Wendy's face bore a small smile in between spoonfuls of mashed potatoes.

Wendy gulped down her bite, and looked up, smiling more broadly. Her smile seemed to give away hints to the rest of the team -- or at least Warrick and Catherine -- of what was meant.

Catherine quickly broke the silence. "You finished the case?!"

Wendy's smile grew. "Yep. This afternoon -- or night. Whatever you say on nightshift."

Warrick chuckled. "We're special."

"Damn straight," Catherine replied, between small, ladylike mouthfuls that she chomped down, less than ladylike.

The team continued to eat, but in more silence. Grissom regretted the silence, but made no further attempts to change it, fearing the repercussions of altering the experiment further, and enjoyed the delicious food prepared.

Taking his last bite of his own potatoes, Grissom turned to stare, again surreptitiously. Warrick and Catherine were, again, at ease. Wendy seemed to be involved in a battle with the chunk of salmon, as she tried, scowling, to push off the pieces of skin. It was the second time that evening that Grissom noticed an unusual level of concentration applied to something not normally warranting such focus, by Wendy. He noticed Wendy pause, and begin to look up, so he too turned his head, this time to his immediate left, where Nick sat in a harsher silence. His face was hard, but still blank, so that Grissom couldn't tell whether it was an expression of apathy or a scowl.

Grissom looked more closely. He was surprised to catch Nick's furtive stares – or, rather, glares -- directed across the table. _Wendy. Something to do with Wendy. He's staring at her; _glaring_ at her._

Based on the newly retrieved piece of evidence, Grissom decided to test the waters further. "So, Wendy." She picked up her head quickly to look at him, almost in surprise. "You ready to be a CSI?"

Warrick and Catherine stared at him, Catherine's expression of definite bemusement. Grissom knew the words were not those expected of him. They sounded awkward, and more so than his normal words. They sounded forced. _Good job protecting the validity of this experiment_, he chastised himself. _But I _will_ go on with this._

Wendy nodded happily. Nick's scowl was less furtive this time, _stronger, _Grissom noted. "We could sure use the extra pair of hands, and eyes, on the grave shift."

Wendy beamed again, or as much as was possible through a mouth full of green beans. Nick scowled more. Wendy and Nick's expressions seemed to exist in an inverse relationship. Where one's happiness grew, the other's decreased even more. The more talk of Wendy's inevitable promotion, the more her face lit up, and the more Nick's fell.

_Hmmm,_ Grissom thought, intrigued.

Grissom was done observing. He was normally a patient man, but he could wait no longer to puzzle over his findings and hypothesize. _Besides,_ he justified. _With this many observations swirling around in my mind, I'm bound to forget something. The more I add, especially without thoroughly processing and encoding, the more I'm bound to forget._

He could see the change in facial expressions, and the surprise at various realizations. Though that was not what most caught his notice. Catherine's ease and sense of humor, just like normal. The only abnormalities in her behavior had been her words towards Nick, which seemed unusually maternal and coddling.

Warrick was at ease, and seemed to follow Catherine's lead more than usual, even in small situations where she blocked his path in the kitchen. Nonetheless, in those cases, only Grissom could see Warrick's small and quickly corrected scowls.

Wendy was attentive and focused. In some ways, she reminded Grissom of a Nick of earlier days, a perfectionist no matter the task. At the same time, however, she seemed very in tune with her surroundings as well as the task she herself was focusing on.

The contrast between Wendy and an earlier Nick was what most illuminated the kitchen's most obvious abnormality. Nick seemed so distracted, so... elsewhere. So faded. So different than he used to be. Grissom couldn't quite pinpoint where the change occurred, but he could still, definitely sense it.

Grissom's hypothesis solved itself.

Nick used to be so bright. Bright like a star, not like a scientist. He really did cast the sort of smile that could light up the room. It was sad to lose those smiles.

Even Grissom could see how it hurt team morale. He knew it wasn't just Greg's loss that plagued them. In reality, they were down three CSIs, not just two. In the last year, while Sara had left and Greg had died, Nick had simply faded away to nothingness. Nick was a shell, and the only difference between him and Greg was that they hadn't found Greg's corpse yet. In the darker depths of his entomologically oriented mind, Grissom wondered if he would find month-old maggot colonies growing in Nick by now.

Tearing himself from the painful metaphor, Grissom stared at the scene before him, and watched it paint the path to his solution.

"Whatcha thinking about, Griss?"

He turned to Catherine, realizing that the last small strain of conversation had died out five minutes ago as he had continued to stare and observe.

"Just the team," Grissom replied.

Catherine raised both brows and nodded, before turning back to her food. Grissom could see the expression on her face, the one that read thought, and, inevitably, an incoming comment. Her next words arrived right on time, as planned for. Nonetheless, they were unexpected. "Hasn't been quite the same for a while, has it?" she asked.

_Bold move_, he thought. _Then again, bold has always been one of Catherine's most notable features. So no surprise there._

"No, it hasn't," Warrick replied, shooting Catherine a strange look, seemingly one of reprove.

"Hasn't been the same since Sara left," Catherine added, more aimed at Warrick's questioning look than at anyone else at the table.

Grissom coughed uncomfortably at the name of his girlfriend -- _if that's even what she is anymore..._ -- and nodded. _I'm not looking for _my_ reaction. I'm looking for _theirs_._

He was surprised to see Nick finally venture words, but the words only served to bring him down further. "Nothing's been the same."

Four simple words that told Grissom everything he was looking for at the moment.

Grissom had a hypothesis, as proved, as best it could be, by the dinner experiment. More importantly, however, he also had his solution.

Watching as Catherine cleared the plates with the eager help of Wendy, Grissom excused himself, reaching into his pocket. His cell phone had never felt so much like a key to happiness before, as when he reached for the familiar, much loved button.

* * *

Please review!


	11. Las Relaciones a Escondidas, Part 2

_................................._

_Salvar: to save, to overcome, to preserve, to rescue, to cover, to pass_

_Salvarse: to survive, to escape_

_................................._

Author's Note: This is, unfortunately, one of the shorter chapters. I promise that the next one will make up for it. Betaed by LaughableBlackStorm. Standard disclaimers apply. Title translates to 'Hidden Relationships'. Enjoy!

* * *

CHAPTER 11: LAS RELACIONES A ESCONDIDAS, PART 2

_THE LAB  
_

_Warrick set down the walkie talkie and let loose a frustrated growl. It wasn't that he didn't know what to do. It was that, technically, there was nothing he_ could _do. Negotiating with hostage takers was, as they'd learned in Nick's coffin debacle, strictly banned by LVPD protocol. _

_Sitting in Grissom's office -- Grissom had been MIA all day -- Warrick put his feet up on the desk and stared up at the ceiling. But he knew it held no answers. _

_He closed his eyes and took another deep breath. He reached for his walkie talkie again. _

_Catherine answered quickly._

_"What kind of vehicle?"_

_"Um... not sure." He could hear her point the question to someone else, no doubt one of the robbers._

_"Something big. Less hard to spot on the road."_

_"So a popular SUV works?"_

_She seemed to get where he was going with the question._

_"Sounds good." _

_Warrick shook his head, trying to find the right thing to say to calm the situation. He could only think of one thing, though he couldn't help but doubt the accuracy of the hypothetical assertion. Nonetheless, weighing the fear that was, no doubt, pounding through Catherine's mind, he said it anyways. "I'll find it."_

_The SUV, he knew, would be the easy part. Negotiating with Bruce Jared, casino magnate, to sit down in an SUV filled with bank robbers and murderers -- probably not so easy._

_Nonetheless, he reached for his keys, grateful that, after enough cases at the Tangiers, Rampart and other establishments formerly owned by Sam Braun -- now owned by Bruce Jared -- he had the location of casino's headquarters memorized. _

* * *

PRESENT

"Warrick."

"Yeah?" Warrick looked up from the food he was helping place in Tupperware containers.

"We need to talk to Nick."

Warrick nodded.

"Greg's case."

"Ugh. Yeah."

"My sentiments exactly."

"I'm guessing he wasn't quite ready to handle the news when you broke it to him about the locker?"

Catherine shook her head. A thin sliver of her bottom lip was clenched harshly in her teeth. The display of concern, unusual for Catherine, looked like it might be the only thing holding back tears.

"Shit."

"I know."

He chuckled sadly. "And I thought cooking would be the hard part."

She let out a grin, though her mouth was still clenched in frustration with the impending, but necessary task.

Fortunately, Wendy, who looked particularly exhausted after pulling so many shifts as both a CSI-in-training and a lab tech, had left quickly after dinner, helping Catherine bring in dishes and then sneaking out with quick goodbyes to all visible team members.

Grissom's location was a mystery, although Catherine had seen him pull out his phone. Warrick and Catherine both knew that Grissom had the discretion to avoid the conversation and would, if necessary, sneak out of the house or into another room to stay out of their way until it was over.

Warrick forced a smile as well, clearing his chest and pushing a foot forward. "Well." He looked up, seeking her affirmation. "No time like the present."

Catherine nodded as they headed out to the living room, where she had instructed Nick to wait.

* * *

_BRUCE JARED'S OFFICE_

_The drive over to Mr. Jared's office was a blur. _

_Finally, Warrick found himself looking down at the information table. _

_"Tangiers. How may I help you?" A skinny young man with short red hair barely looked up from his computer to greet Warrick -- if it could even be called a greeting. _

_The kid barely looked old enough to be _in_ a casino, let alone working for one. His voice exuded boredom. From the pace of clicks and taps on the keyboard, Warrick would comfortably wager that the receptionist was in the middle of some game; since they were, after all, in Vegas, it was probably internet poker of some sort. Given the apathetic tone, Warrick wasn't optimistic about the kid's inclination for helping Warrick as quickly as possible._

_Hopefully, he thought, sounding official and urgent would get the job done._

_"Hi. I'm with LVPD working on the Tangiers investigation. I need to speak to Mr. Jared, immediately."_

_"Um..." The man shot a brief, concerned look at the computer before turning down to face his desk, clearly in thought. _

_Thinking the man might need an extra push, Warrick added, "Any delay could cost the investigation and even count as interfering with an investigation --"_

_"Okay, okay." _

_'Interfering with an investigation' probably wasn't the most accurate term. If the receptionist -- or whoever it was that worked the Tangiers information booth -- had taken a while to find Mr. Jared, it wouldn't exactly have constituted a crime. It would just be an interference. _Fudging the truth_, Warrick thought. _Brass would certainly understand. _Sometimes -- not often, but sometimes -- the ignorance of the general Vegas population could be quite useful. _

_The kid reached for the phone in front of him as his eyes darted around the room, looking at Warrick briefly. He hung up the receiver and motioned for someone standing further behind Warrick, off in another room to the left. "Mr. Martino! Police guy wants to talk to you!"_

_Warrick sighed, trying not to roll his eyes at being called 'Police guy.' The first thing people noticed about Warrick, other than his impossible turquoise eyes, was his skin color and big, burly build. When they heard LVPD, or, often, even 'working for the city,' they just assumed his vocation consisted of shoot-outs and beating and/or intimidating confessions out of druggies and suspects. But he was a scientist before he was a police officer. _

_A slim man moved quickly toward the counter. He was clearly a _somebody_ in the casino. He was dressed crisply and professionally, with full, dark hair combed neatly across his head, though not in a comb over, but barely venturing to touch the clear, deep olive skin. "Hi. I'm Rex Martino, Mr. Jared's assistant," he said, reaching out a hand. Warrick noted the strong handshake. _This is a man of confidence and efficiency.

_"Warrick Brown, crime lab."_

_Mr. Martino nodded. "Your team is investigating the murder at the Tangiers." It was more of a statement than a question._

_"My team _was_ investigating it."_

_"Was?" Mr. Martino wrinkled his thick brows. He began to speak but was interrupted by Warrick._

_"The robbers came back."_

_Mr. Martino looked Warrick in the eye, searching for the rest of the story. He kept a good poker face, but Warrick could see the anxiety belied in the calm expression. _

_"The perps came back and took my team hostage. We have three men -- err, three officers -- two men and one woman down there." He added quietly, "The perps threatened to hurt them."_

_Mr. Martino pursed his lip, reaching up a hand to rub his chin; he was clearly lost in thought. "This certainly complicates matters."_

_Warrick nodded._

_"What do they want? Money?" Warrick could see the anxiety growing in the man's voice, even as his face hid it well._

_"I think they already found the money."_

_"How?" Mr. Martino looked thoroughly baffled, but waved it off. "Never mind. Um..."_

_"I need to speak to Mr. Jared, right away."_

_Mr. Martino nodded. "I'll go find him. Follow me."_

_Warrick heaved a sigh of relief, knowing he was one step closer to the goal that had, minutes ago, seemed insurmountable. It still seemed insurmountable, of course, to get Mr. Jared to go along with the plan -- to jump in the escape vehicle of four crazy robbers with who-knew-what on their minds. _Nonetheless_, Warrick reminded himself. _This is one step closer. One step closer to bringing them all back, safe and sound. One step closer to quashing the fear in Catherine's voice.

_Mr. Martino's walk was brisk and Warrick was surprised to find himself struggling to keep up with the petite man. _Guess I'm getting older than I thought_, he thought with a shake of the head as he followed Mr. Martino, weaving between people and offices. He was surprised by the sheer size of the office. _

_Mr. Martino knocked at the door, hand steady. "Mr. Jared!"_

_A moment passed, and Warrick thought he could hear someone on the phone behind the door. _

_"Bruce!" Mr. Martino yelled again. _

_"Come in, Rex." The voice from behind the door was smooth and patient, surprising for a man of such power and responsibility. _

_Rex opened the door before leaning in to whisper into the ear of the man at the desk. _

_The man, turning around to face Warrick, nodded. "Thanks, Rex. I'll take care of it."_

_The door closed and Warrick got a good look at the man in front of him. His face was aged, but gentle, and it surprised Warrick, once again, that such a man could grow into the role of one of Vegas's premier tycoons. Wispy grey hair was combed over his balding head, and slight grey eyebrows were barely visible above large, open eyes. The title at the desk confirmed that this was indeed Bruce Jared. _

_"Rex has informed me of the entire situation."_

_Warrick looked up, perplexed that Mr. Martino had even had the time to give all of the information in a second's worth of whispering. _

_Mr. Jared, as if in response, tapped a cell phone. "He informed me on the way over."_

_Warrick nodded, knowing he hadn't been able to keep track of Mr. Martino half the time as he followed the man into the office. _

_"One of the best assistants I've ever had, Rex is. Very efficient," Mr. Jared added as he edged his chair closer to the desk, and to Warrick. _

_Warrick nodded. "Ah --"_

_"Yes, yes," Mr. Jared smiled at Warrick -- gravely but reassuringly. "Let's get right to business. So, what is it that they want?" His voice remained sublimely calm and gentle. Warrick couldn't help thinking that he must have made a terrific poker player at one point in time. _

_"Ah, at this point?"_

_"Rex mentioned that they probably already had some money?"_

_"Yes. Something to that effect. But, Mr. Jared…" Warrick felt the sudden need to rush, even in the slower pace of Mr. Jared's southern hospitality and grace. "That's not what they want. And they're going to hurt my friends -- the investigators down there -- if you don't go to the scene."_

_Mr. Jared raised an eyebrow, which Warrick suspected conveyed all the more on such a poker face. "_Me_?"_

_"Yes. I don't know why. I'm not really sure what the deal is --"_

_"Mr. Brown," Mr. Jared replied, clearly picking Warrick's name off of the CSI vest. "We don't negotiate with terrorists. I'm sorry. I really am. They ask for my cooperation now, but next thing you know, it'll be the entire casino."_

_"Mr. Jared, with all due respect, they couldn't handle everyone at your casino. There's only four of them."_

_"Mr. Brown." Mr. Jared leaned forward again. "Don't doubt the abilities of four men to handle a _hell_ of a lot."_

_Warrick leaned forward as well, meeting Mr. Jared's eyes. "Right now I'm only concerned about their abilities to handle _my_ friends and teammates."_

_"Mr. Brown --"_

_"Call me Warrick."_

_"Warrick, I... I don't know what to say. I'm sorry about the situation. I really am. But I can't just go out every time a bunch of terrorists or robbers or murderers makes that sort of threat. Giving in only encourages them, and others like them. The more we give in, the more they'll ask for, or the more other robbers will ask for."_

_"But they're only asking for you. Seriously, what could they want?"_

_"Well, I'd imagine they want the correct combinations to open one of our various deposits. I'm the only one who knows all of the combinations at present. Their asking for my help is no different than them asking for all of the casino's money. And if we gave that to them, they'd just as easily drive every one of my employees out of a job. Given the number of casinos under my direction, they could easily bankrupt half of the major casinos in this city. Surely you see that this is no light matter, Mr. Brown. It's a question of the entire Las Vegas economy, of present and future."_

_Warrick grit his teeth, seeing the man's logic. "Well, you wouldn't have to give them the information."_

_Mr. Jared bristled at the comment. "They'd get it out of me, one way or another. Threaten the hostages some more, threaten _me_."_

_Warrick glared._

_"I really am sorry, Mr. Br-- Warrick. I really am. In the words of a great hero, 'With great power comes great responsibility.' It may be clichéd, but it's true. I'm responsible for everyone who chooses to make their living, or even those who choose to _spend_ their living here. I'm sorry. But my hands are tied."_

_Warrick didn't know how to respond, but to grit his teeth again. With Mr. Jared's hands tied, his were too. _

_"Mr. Jared --"_

_"Call me Bruce."_

_"Okay, Bruce. Would you give me a minute?"_

_"Sure."_

_Warrick slipped out of the room and pulled out his walkie-talkie. _

_"Rick?!" He could hear the fear and franticness in Catherine's voice. _

_"I just talked to Mr. Jared. No go."_

_"Oh."_

_He could hear a commotion on the other end, as Catherine no doubt broke the news to everyone else hidden in whichever back room of the casino. _

_A new voice broke through the static, this one cold, male and melancholy, with a frightening hint of rage. "Put Mr. Jared on. Please." It was unmistakably an order, not a request. _

_Warrick handed the phone to Mr. Jared and watched as the man's face grew white. He shooed Warrick out of the room and Warrick obliged. _

**

* * *

**

PRESENT

Catherine was relieved when the conversation ended. Nick had taken it stoically -- almost too stoically. He was uncontrollable, and she was grateful for the opportunity for control that was hidden under her bed. Finally alone in her house, aside from her sleeping daughter, she made her way back to her room, to reflect on the dinner and the case that would, hopefully, ease her team's tension.

The conversation had been followed by an awkward silence, which Nick quickly broke, announcing that he had a hard case and had to be up early for the next shift. Grissom, sure enough, had left immediately afterwards, with a gentle goodbye to Warrick and Catherine, as well as a sincere thank you for the news they broke to Nick. Warrick had followed quickly out the door.

Upon reaching her bedroom, however, Catherine was beckoned by the soft pillows and comforters. She had been working too much lately, and sleep was too inviting and precious a commodity. _But Nick... he needs closure, and he needs it now_, she thought. Then again, she realized, at the rate she was going, working the case as a solo during the limited time that she had off, who knew when it would actually be solved.

She groaned, knowing what she had to do, and reached down for the box.

Minutes later, the gentle swoosh of the front door again interrupted her from the task at hand. Peering out, she saw Warrick, heading toward the kitchen. Staring back at the box with fatigue, she chuckled and followed Warrick.

He turned around, looking not quite startled but not quite expectant either. "Aw man. Did I wake you up?" he asked with a grimace.

She chuckled, looking down meaningfully at her jeans and blouse. Her night's culinary feats was still barely visible. Specks of olive oil dotted a sleeve, clear evidence from the "crime," as Warrick had called it, of sneaking a green bean off the hot skillet.

"Well, sorry," he said, laughing. "I forgot ladies of class never conk out fully dressed after a long day's work. I guess it's just lazy bachelors like me."

She laughed back. "Well, lazy bachelors habits aside, I'm assuming that you didn't plan on conking out, after a long day's work, in my kitchen. What brings you back here, Mr. Brown?"

"Mashed potatoes."

Catherine tried -- and failed -- to stifle a laugh. "Mashed potatoes over sleep?"

"Did you _try_ those mashed potatoes?! If you did, I think you'd see that there's no comparison."

"Okay," she said, still laughing. "I'll give you that."

"More specifically," he explained, "I promised Amy I'd save her some. So she can have a part of the romantic dinner I had planned."

"Oh, Warrick. What a gentleman." She rolled her eyes. "You couldn't just order out?"

"Hey now. We'd agreed that I could take some of the food home afterwards. Specifically, you asked me to because you said you and Lindsey couldn't go through all of the leftovers and you didn't want it to go bad."

Catherine chuckled. "Very true."

"So, what's keeping _you_ out of bed?"

She looked guiltily to the side, giving herself away immediately.

Warrick laughed. "Judging by the guilty expression, I'm gonna go with porn?"

Catherine raised her eyebrows in mock-offended shock. "Hey!"

"Just kiddin' with you, Cath."

She turned to look at him smugly. "This is Vegas, Warrick. If I want porn, do you really think I would risk downloading it and watching it at home? That's what 'Boys Down Under' is for."

Warrick choked back a surprised laugh at the Australian porn show that made its home in Vegas.

Catherine followed Warrick's stare to the clock in her kitchen. _Ugh, it's getting late. And I still have to work on that case. Ugh. Wait. _

"Actually," Catherine said, turning serious. "I'm working on a case."

"I thought you never work on cases at home."

"It's not a case for the Lab."

He looked back at her, puzzled, waiting for an explanation.

"Ari Marvin's case."

"Wait -- what... I thought that was closed. I mean..."

"Not _the _case. Not Greg's case. Ari Marvin's original case. The one he was convicted of. In 1985. Tam Jared."

Warrick furrowed his brows, clearly of many emotions at the news of Catherine's new case.

Catherine began, calmly but quietly, with, paradoxically, both resoluteness and trepidation. "We can't find closure for Greg. We can't find his body. But we can at least find out why. Why they came, and robbed... Why they killed him."

Warrick pursed his lips, finally looking up to stare at Catherine. It was a look of affirmation.

"What do you need help with?"

* * *

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** Thanks to Meg, Marifw, SuzSeb, Atticus and QueenOfTheUniverse for reviews on the last chapter! To answer SuzSeb's question, I think Catherine's attitude toward Greg is more of a pragmatic one. She's had to deal with a lot of loss in her life. She's not used to things working out, and she certainly has no reason to think that Greg will ever come back alive. More than anything, I think she's dismissed even thinking about the possibility of him being alive because she's more concerned with dealing with her team members who are still there -- especially Nick and Warrick. As to Nick -- I really think he's too blinded by grief and especially by the horrific memory of his last moments with Greg (which will be shown next chapter) to think rationally about anything related to Greg. Special thanks to Atticus for your ever-encouraging words :)

Thanks so much for reading! Please feed my addiction and review!

~Harper


	12. Cincuenta Mil Minutos, Part 1

_................................._

_Salvar: to save, to overcome, to preserve, to rescue, to cover, to pass_

_Salvarse: to survive, to escape_

_................................._

Author's Note: I've been going back and forth about whether or not to make this yet another two-part chapter and, after much consideration and finagling of scenes, it too has turned into a two-parter. That said, there is still a major tissue warning on this one, as well as the next, though I'd say that this one is less sad. Please don't let this chapter and the next depress you too much. This story is not a tragedy; it will still have a satisfying resolution for all characters involved. Thanks to LostLadyKnight, Marifw, Lil'SpenceFan, Meg and QueenOfTheUniverse for reviews on the last chapter and to LaughableBlackStorm for beta! Standard disclaimers apply. Title translates to 'Fifty Thousand Minutes'.

Anyways, enjoy, and happy (belated) holidays!

* * *

CHAPTER 12: CINCUENTA MIL MINUTOS, PART 1

_Ari paced menacingly, and Greg didn't want to know what would be in store for him and Nick should Warrick fail. At the same time, he recognized that it would probably take nothing short of a miracle to convince Bruce Jared to get in an escape vehicle with the four malicious men. He didn't doubt Warrick's powers of persuasion, but it would be a challenge for Cicero himself to convince any man that valued his own life to do what Ari was asking of Mr. Jared. _

_Which left Greg Sanders in a debacle. _

_He knew his chances were poor. He could see it coming. He had cheated death twice -- in the lab explosion and later in the beating. The third time would, after all, be the charm. He accepted it with a sad sigh. _

Today, it _is_ my day to die.

_He stared out blankly, surprised that the tears hadn't come out yet. Perhaps, he wondered, he was just too exhausted to cry. _

_More than anything, he didn't want Nick's last memory of him to be one of him crying, lying helpless and, above all, weak, on the ground. He wanted to be remembered as strong. _

_The most precious memories pushed themselves back into his mind and, to his surprise, they were not memories of his achievements. He'd won enough chess tournaments and science fairs in his day, along with the full scholarship to Stanford. He'd always expected that graduation day and the day he'd received his acceptance letter, or perhaps the days -- now hypothetical -- when he would get married or got his book published would be his greatest days. Looking back now, though, past accomplishments and beautiful dreams fell to the wayside. _

xxxxxxx

_He remembered sitting at the breakfast table, in silence, reading the paper as Nick looked over chapters of Greg's book draft. _

_"Hey, Greggo."_

_Greg looked up. _

_"This is really good. I never knew you could write like this."_

_Greg beamed with pride. "So many things you don't know about me, Tex. So much left to learn," he spoke with a smirk and licked his lips. _

_"Hah. I can't wait," Nick replied. "Waffle?"_

_The plate made its way across the table before Greg had a chance to nod his head. "Not gonna even wait for my response, eh?"_

_Nick chuckled. "I know you -- and your stomach -- too well to wait."_

_Greg laughed back. "Fine. Though my stomach, which you claim to know, most definitely prefers my Nana Olaf's waffle recipe."_

_Nick laughed again. "Aw, did Greggy's grandma not teach him how to make those waffles?"_

_Greg scowled. "Shut up. Knowing how to cook is a good thing. I'm proud of it."_

_"Aw. It's alright. I love how domestic you are."_

_"Please stop."_

_"Why? You got a break from the cookin' an' cleanin' an' stuff, wifey."_

_"I'm not your housewife, Nick. Just because I'm smaller than you doesn't mean I'm the girl in the relationship. We're supposed to be equal. Which is kind of hard when you're too ashamed to even admit we're together."_

_"But Greg. It's not that easy --"_

_"Of course it's not, and that's not even what I'm talking about."  
_

_Greg glared again before shuffling away from the table. He half expected Nick to follow him to his office, where he now sat, reading up on the latest events in Russian politics. Somehow, Vladamir Putin was not enough to keep him interested. _

_His growling stomach in agreement, he headed back for the dining room to find one now-lukewarm waffle left, his own bite marks still intact. It didn't taste quite as sweet, even with exorbitant amounts of whipped cream and defrosted strawberries unearthed from the freezer. Somehow, the dressings just made it soggy, which summed up his sentiments on life at the moment. _

At least it's soggy and not stale,_ he thought with a smirk. _

_He glazed over the paper yet again, at least forcing his eyes over all of the words. He doubted he'd remember what he'd read an hour from now, but at least he'd read it. He wasn't ill-informed, per say. _

_His stomach growled and he glanced at the now-empty kitchen, forcing himself up. _Grandma Olaf _did_ teach me how to make those waffles.

xxxxxxx

_"I had Micky in my pocket then. Oh lordy, he woulda' done anythin' I asked 'im to, ya know? Course you don't. You're not real Vegas. Not from the olden' days. Dey called 'em the golden days for a reason, kid."_

_He stared intently at the next sentence, trying to separate his sloppily speed-written vowels, when friendly words jolted him from the detailed escapades of Vegas showgirl-turned-legendary-gossip Bertha Torrence, as interviewed two months prior._

_"Hey, you."_

_Greg turned around, looking up from his writing. "Hey," he mumbled, barely meeting Nick's eye. _

_"That all I get tonight?"_

_Greg nodded tentatively. _

_"I didn't mean to upset you."_

_"I know. No biggie."_

_"If it's no biggie, then why don't you come talk to me?"_

_Greg looked up and saw the genuine remorse in Nick's eyes. He looked back at his notes, weighing his options carefully, before standing up. _

_A warm hand on his back immediately greeted him as he stepped towards the door and reminded him of the comfort of human contact. _

_"You make good waffles."_

_Greg nodded, smiling sheepishly. "I learned from the best."_

_Nick chuckled. "I'm sure you did."_

_Greg looked up to catch Nick's eye. "Why?"_

_Nick chuckled uncomfortably. "Because your Nana Olaf --"_

_"That's not what I'm talking about. You _know_ that's not what I'm talking about."_

_"Greg..." It was a warning voice. The You-_know_-I'm-not-discussing-that-so-stop-freakin'-bringin'-it-up-cuz-it's-End-Of-Discussion voice. _

_Greg interrupted before Nick could finish scolding. "I hate living this way -- living on the edge, like walking on a minefield."_

_"Greg..." There was the voice again. _

_"Tell me, _Nicky_," Greg practically spit out his partner's nickname. "What's the difference between living a secret and living a lie?"_

_"We're not getting into this now."_

_Greg could see the fire building up, yet again, in Nick's eyes._

_"Whatever," he replied, albeit knowing -- and knowing that Nick knew -- that the discussion's significance was anything but that. "I've got a book to write." He was tired -- tired from a long day, but also tired from the long many months of hiding -- and he didn't care if he was playing dirty this time. _

_"Aw come on now, Greggo."_

_"Greggo?! Doesn't sound very professional now does it, _Stokes_?"_

_"Come on. Don't be like that. You're bein' immature. Do you really wanna get hassled on the job? Do you really want all the _crap_ that comes with bein' out?!"_

_"Do _you_ really want me to be myself?!"_

_"Of course I --"_

_"So the answer is yes, but only in the house. Only in _your _house? Huh? Is that right?"_

_"Oh come on, Greg. You know it's not like that. Quit bein' such a drama queen."_

_Greg chuckled drily at Nick's word choice. "You wouldn't even call me _that_ outside this house because it has one of your 'bad words' in it." Greg embraced 'bad words' with bitter mocking and scoffing quotations marks. _

_"Okay. You're clearly tired --"_

_"Yeah! Damn right I'm tired! I'm tired of pretending to be someone else! You know what Sara fuckin' told me the other fuckin' day?!"_

_Nick took a step back, caught off guard by the display. "Language, Greggo."_

_"Language? Language?! Is 'fuckin' that bad, to you, in comparison to 'honey' or 'Nicky?' 'Cause if I said _those_ words at the Lab, you'd be _way_ more pissed off. Yeah? Yeah. Don't bother answering because you know it's true."_

_"Greg, you're getting out of --"_

_"Shut up, Stokes!"_

_Nick was temporarily speechless, and cut off again before he regained verbal capabilities. _

_"So you wanna know what Sara said, huh?"_

_Nick looked confused, as if weighing options between a rock and a hard place. "Uh... sure."_

_Greg rolled his eyes. "She said I'm not myself anymore."_

_Nick looked up, as if waiting for more. "Uh... so...?"_

_Greg growled loudly in frustration. "Of course! Why should you care?! I --"_

_This time it was Nick to interrupt. "Time out! Okay?! Time out. Hold your horses. I'm sorry, but I feel like it's the spoiled California boy in you talkin' right now, Greggo. It's not the end of the world if you can't be your flamboyant and wacky self 24/7. It's called compromising. Seriously, it's not that difficult to act mature, and professional and calm. You don't need to be embodying the full essence of Greggo every second of every day at the lab. You can just be normal."_

_"Normal? Normal?! --"_

_"You'd hardly be the first to front it, Greggo. You know how long I've been fakin' it?"_

_"Fakin' it is your middle name. Not mine. Just because you're not comfortable in your own shoes doesn't mean I shouldn't be comfortable in mine." Greg, growing more frustrated and, conversely, less capable of articulate speech, by the minute, turned on his heel and headed back toward the office._

_"Greg, wait."_

_He risked one look and three words back before shutting the door again. "Shove it, Stokes."_

_xxxxxxx_

_An hour later, Greg's notes were stained with tears. _

_Opening the door to grab more Kleenexes and, hopefully, if Nick wasn't in the room, to grab a bite to eat, he heard a clang under the door. _

_Looking down, he saw a plate of waffles._

_"I'm sorry, Greggo." He looked up to see Nick emerging from the living room._

_Greg nodded as warm arms embraced him, and he dropped his head down to Nick's shoulder, finally letting out a noisy sob. Nick gently caressed his now-misshapen hair and whispered comforting words into his ear. Greg nodded at the sentiment. _

_He felt a hand reach for the back of his thigh, and it didn't take long for Nick to scoop him up as they both descended to the ground. _

_An hour later, there they sat, empty plate with maple syrup smudges now pushed off to the side as they laid, cradled into each other, against the wall._

_Greg murmured the truth -- the one Nick would never understand -- in his partner's ear, hoping that this time, unlike all the other times, it would actually get through. _

_"This isn't about coming out of the closet. I can live with you not wanting to do that, but I need you to at least take what we have seriously. I don't care what you call me. Just don't talk about me like the roommate that cooks you dinner whenever you want it and then gets temperamental. The way you make jokes about what I do in the house. I don't care if other people know about us. I just want you and I to know about us. To know what we have." He sniffled back a drying tear and rubbed his nose, whispering in Nick's ear, though he knew the message was for naught. "Just respect me. Let me in. You don't have to show the world that I'm your partner. You just have to show _me_ that."_

xxxxxxx

_Greg groaned. Perhaps that wasn't the most precious memory. His mind fought for happier ones, but, somehow, every one of them involved some new sign of his own weaknesses. _

_He glanced up as footsteps rushed toward Catherine, and watched Catherine and Ari converse in hushed voices. They were still loud enough for Greg to catch the details: as he'd known all along, Warrick had not been successful. _

_Ari reached for the walkie talkie and began debating heatedly with someone on the other end before rushing through the door again, into the adjoining room that Nick had been processing. The tone of the other person's voice didn't sound smooth or young enough to be Warrick._

_Greg reached out for happier memories as he watched his life filter through the waning hourglass. _

xxxxxxx

_Right before it had all happened, Greg had just finished his case, and another successful court appearance. Somehow, successful court appearances always seemed to precede the most unfortunate, violent events of his life. But at least the first beating had been followed by a week back at home with Nick, being tenderly doted on by the Texan. It always surprised him how well Nick pulled off tenderness, perhaps because he chose to try it so seldom.  
_

_"Greggo! How ya' doin'?" _

_Greg could hear the emotion in Nick's voice by the increased accent. He knew Nick was really concerned, and he was willing to do just about anything to alleviate Nick's fear._

_So Greg stood up, pushing himself off of their worn, navy couch. He winced as the bruises on his legs and back conspired against him in pain. _

_"Hey! Watch it! Ya' don't wanna mess with the stitches!"_

_"I'm fine, Nick," Greg said, rolling his eyes. "I'm just as much a tough macho man as you." He added flexed arms for emphasis, though they quickly turned on him, as he felt the even more bruises and stitches in his shoulders and elbow. "I can take the pain," he said, cringing noticeably._

_Nick chuckled from his place in the living room doorway. "Sure you can, Mr. Tough Guy. But I still want you to be better _quicker_. It's not nearly as rewarding to tackle and pin you when you're covered in casts."_

_Greg scowled mischievously. "Is that so?"_

_"Yeah! It's like wrestlin' a cripple. You were never any competition for me in the first place, Greggo. But now it's even _worse_. You're like a freakin' girl!"_

_Greg exaggerated a pout. "Sara would be offended by that statement. Also, am not."_

_"You know who wears the pants in this relationship."_

_"Just because you're the one bringin' home the big CSI 3 bucks? Eh?"_

_"Among other reasons."_

_Greg glowered. "Like what? Name one." He interrupted Nick before he could respond. "And nothing dirty, mind you!"_

_Nick rolled his eyes. "Fine. First of all, you're so much littler than I am."_

_"Am not."_

_"Are too!" Nick rolled up his sleeves to flex his own muscles. "See the difference."_

_"Pshh. You're just built that way. _I_ am built more like a long-distance runner, or a swimmer or something."_

_Nick faked a cough. "Or a ballerina."_

_"You jerk!"_

_This time, Nick was prevented from responding with a pillow heading for his head. He diverted it easily. "See! You even throw like a girl!"_

_"Well, I've got my whole freakin' arm bandaged up! I _am_ a fuckin' cripple, at least for the moment!" Greg stuck out his tongue._

_"You can't have it both ways, Mr. Macho Ballerina Cripple."_

_Greg squinted, trying to imagine the picture. "Well, at least I'd make a hot macho ballerina cripple. But wouldn't I be a ballerin_o_ cripple? What's the masculine form of ballerina?" He was interrupted with a returning pillow. "Hey! Watch the delicate stitches, jerk!"_

_"Aww. Does my poor little geek need a band-aid?"_

_Greg extended his arm with a pout. "No, but can you kiss my boo-boo better?"_

_"I'll kiss your whole freakin' face better!"_

_And he did. It hadn't quite made the whole ordeal worth it, but it sure made it better. Having Nick by his side for every trial coming from the Demetrius James and beating fiasco had made it all so much better than it could have been._

_Not for the first or last time, Greg almost wished he could have Nick to kiss and generally help away the pain. But he knew the scars went far too deep for that this time. And he wouldn't burden Nick with that, if Nick would have even been willing, which he probably wouldn't be. Sticking with the plan, Greg knew, was better for all involved. _

_Greg knew he wasn't making it out of this one. When he got out -- _if_ he got out -- there would be no retreating weakly into Nick's arms. _

_Greg knew that, soon enough, he's have to say goodbye -- the goodbye he'd been rehearsing for so many months, maybe even so many years. Except this goodbye would be different than planned. It wasn't just a goodbye to Nick, but a goodbye to his team -- to his world._

xxxxxxx

_Lake Mead was stormy, but that was just right. They weren't there for the memory, but for a new experience, and the dark, gloomy rain served them well. _

_Greg reached for the mast as familiar footsteps reverberated against the wooden deck. _

_The only other sign of the other man approaching was the warmth spreading through the empty wisps of air. _

_"Ready?" he murmured. _

_Out of the side of his peripheral vision, he could make out Nick's nod. With the affirmative, he scuttled across the deck for the railing. _

_"No hurry."_

_He nodded, slowing down to pacing. Tonight, he reminded himself, was about calm. They had nowhere to be but that spot that would always be familiar to Nick._

_Looking up, he glanced at the mast once more, as the heavy off-white sheets exchanged passionate whispers with the angry sky. Winds and sails wrestled for a few more minutes, as Greg watched with awe. _

_Glancing over, he saw that Nick had meant it when he said there was no hurry. His partner stood on the side of the boat, sipping a mug of hot chamomile-mint tea. Greg knew the goal was calm when Blue Hawaiian wasn't even permitted. _

_The wind heaved angrily into the thick cloth, but the sail couldn't move fully, even as its middle dove down with the stormy power. _

_Reaching over, he released the rope, to end the battle. Vehement air filled the center of the sail immediately, creating a pillowy hollow. Greg turned his gaze to his first mate, as Nick reached for the steering wheel with ease and one arm, the other still clutching the steaming mug, with two fingers attached to the thick wooden railing. _

_Greg knew the sails were not alone in their battle with the wind when he realized that pieces of the sky's musty tune were not, in fact, the work of the clouds and atmosphere, but of Nick's puckered lips. _

_The notes caught, turning into empty puffs periodically. Greg knew it had been a while since Nick had whistled much. Seeking scientific explanations, Greg ventured, to himself of course, that Nick had lost the muscle memory for just how much air was required. Nonetheless, the familiar notes brought a smile to Greg's face. _

_It was an ironic choice. Lake Mead was no San Francisco Bay, nor were they exactly wasting time. Nonetheless, somehow, the sorrows of life left them there. As far as Greg was concerned, Georgia was close enough to Texas anyhow. Just as the placid waters had calmed Otis Redding back in the day, the stormy waters of Lake Mead eased Nick's state of mind. That was, after all, why they were there. _

_Greg took over the steering wheel, allowing Nick to rest peacefully against the railing with both hands, his tea long gone and the mug haphazardly clutched against the wood with three fingers. Nick stared out over the water. _

_Greg could tell that they were approaching the spot, and he saw Nick's eyes linger on the minute, yet dense island._

_Roots from a small, twisted tree dug through the clay and mud into the dirty water, and Greg knew it was the spot. There was no need for Nana Olaf's supposed psychic powers in order to see through Nick's lens, to the fragile hands once again clutching stiff branches. _

xxxxxxx

_Greg's recollections were interrupted by the angry footsteps' diversion -- they were clearly moving closer, and fast. _

_Rough hands grabbed his shoulders, rubbing harshly against new bruises. Hands reached up to a vice lock around his shoulders from behind, pulling him up. _

_He knew Catherine and Nick were watching, waiting to see what happened next -- what trouble Greg got himself into next. Greg glared off at the wall, wishing the stares away. Instead, as his head moved, seeking some less offensive target, his gaze ended up on Richie, who sat off in a corner, licking his lips like a cat. Greg looked away, ashamed. He hoped that, no matter what they did next, it would happen in a different room, where Nick and Catherine couldn't watch his humiliation. _

_"Where ya' takin' 'im?" The words, which Greg attributed to the quietest of the four, Julian, made Greg nauseous. _

_Ari didn't respond, but instead continued to drag Greg away. _

_Greg could hear someone standing and moving to follow Ari._

_"Get down, Richie. Stay here." Ari's voice was commanding. Greg was grateful that he'd only have to deal with one of the men. Then again, that left the other three in the room with Nick and Catherine. He knew it was a lose-lose situation._

_One hand -- and one vice grip around one of Greg's shoulders -- loosened, as Ari reached for a door. Instead of relief, though, Greg just felt more pressure on the other shoulder, prompting a cry of pain. He quickly bit his lip to stifle it, hoping nobody heard it. _

_Finally, Ari had the door pried all the way open. Greg could vaguely hear Nick and Catherine's cries of protest, but he ignored them. He couldn't look them in the eyes, and he knew it. _

_He was relieved to hear the door close, so much so that he barely minded being tossed to the floor, landing on sore ribs. He suspected that the bloody handkerchief still clutched in stiff, tense hands would do little good to save him now. There would be too much blood._

_The door opened one last time. Ari scanned the room again, no doubt to stare menacingly at each and every one of its inhabitants. His words and tone were sinister. "I suggest you all cooperate with me," he hissed out, mainly at Nick and Catherine. "If you don't want to end up paying the way _this _one is going to." He punctuated the last words with a kick to Greg's stomach, eliciting a muffled growl. "And make _sure_ that your friend on the walkie talkie understands that as well."_

_With that, Ari closed the door. _

**

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**

**Author's Note: **As for the chapter's content, I hope y'all liked the NickGreg relationship flashbacks. My intent was to show that their relationship has always been complicated and imperfect (basically like any other relationship). This issue will be addressed in much more depth later in the story. How did you guys like the flashbacks? It seems I've been running short on reviews lately, though I'm gonna blame that on the holidays (so says the Scrooge). Still, if you're reading, please do review.


	13. Cincuenta Mil Minutos, Part 2

_................................._

_Salvar: to save, to overcome, to preserve, to rescue, to cover, to pass_

_Salvarse: to survive, to escape_

_................................._

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I got two questions/comments about the NG issue of coming out of the closet. To respond to Atticus's question and AppreciatesFineLabRats' comment, I haven't been in a situation similar to Nick and Greg. I'm a straight girl and have, instead, found myself on the other end of that issue -- being the person who wasn't told. In my case, I was (as I found out a few days ago) the girlfriend who didn't catch on. I don't want to get into too much detail, more for the sake of my ex-boyfriend's dignity (stuff like this is one of the many reasons that I try to keep my account as anonymous as possible). That said, both my ex and I have grown up in very supportive environments. Our high school was VERY pro-gay rights, and nobody in our group of friends was really homophobic. I really don't think my ex's parents are at all homophobic either. Still, he kept it a secret. I can't even begin to imagine how Nick would have felt, growing up in a conservative state, probably with a conservative family, and then going on to work in law enforcement. Again, I don't know very much about law enforcement culture, but I really don't think 100 percent of LVPD would stand behind Nick in that sort of situation.

More than anything, however, Nick and Greg's relationship woes are NOT all about coming out of the closet, which I realize I didn't adequately express in the last chapter. I think of that issue as more the tip of the iceberg. Overall, the problems Nick and Greg have faced in their relationship are a lot more universal -- they're two different, distinct personalities who are not equally invested in the relationship. Basically, they're in a perfectly normal slightly dysfunctional relationship. Their relationship will be explored in much greater depth later in the story. This chapter should give you a slightly better idea of their relationship. IMO, Relationships are seldom equal; there's always one person (in this case, Greg) who's more invested in it, and that tends to create problems. I think that tends to come out in this chapter.

As to the chapter, there is a Kleenex warning. Writing this chapter made me cry. I apologize ahead of time for the sadness though, again, please don't let it dissuade you from the rest of the story. I promise that it gets better (or, rather, happier). Standard disclaimers apply. Beta by LaughableBlackStorm. Title translates to Fifty Thousand Minutes. Enjoy!

**

* * *

**CHAPTER 13- CINCUENTA MIL MINUTOS, PART 2**  
**

Nick stared at the locker with hatred and reverence.

It was Greg's locker -- _had _been Greg's locker, as he'd had to remind himself countless times over the past month.

He didn't want to remind himself. He didn't want it to be true. It _couldn't_ be true. Even as the brutal images forced themselves through the stubborn dams of his mind, he willed it all away. It couldn't be true. But it was. Greg was too alive, too young. His happy laughter still bounced through Nick's mind. Nick still expected him to come home. He still remembered what his lover and best friend looked like. Therefore, Greg couldn't be dead.

Grief didn't make any sense. Heartbreak didn't make any sense. What happened to Greg -- that _really _didn't make sense -- how someone could just snuff out such a beautiful, kind, loving light -- and to do it so cruelly?

But Nick, in all his realism, couldn't wrap his head around the idea of Greg just not being there -- not being there when Grissom handed out assignments in the break room, not being there when they worked a case together or chatted in the locker room. Not be there waiting at home. It couldn't be real.

He wanted to reach into the locker and grab everything that used to be there -- to pass over it and love and fondle each remnant of his favorite ghost.

Nick stared back at the locker, pondering his options. It had been a month, and they had needed to clear out the space. But Nick couldn't. He hadn't been able to.

It had been a month since that horrific night. Exactly one month. Nick had wanted to skip work that day, but he also hadn't wanted to be stuck at home, alone with his thoughts.

_Home._ It felt so empty. A month later, it still felt so empty. No joy, no laughter, no flirtation. None of the famous Nana Olaf pancakes and cookies. No more chiding Greg for eating said cookies for breakfast. Nick chuckled at the memory, but the chuckles quickly turned to pain, as did most memories of Greg.

He was gone. _Gone._ Nick could repeat it to himself over and over again, but that wouldn't make it seem any truer in his mind. The truth couldn't seep through, even as Nick saw, once again, the blood and tears and sweat dripping down the pained body of his lover.

Yet he could never reconcile that memory with the man he had known and loved. What had happened, what they _did_ to him -- those did not fit with the wacky, loving lab-tech-turned-field-mouse.

A month later, it still didn't make any sense.

The lab was silent. Ghostly. Eerie. Haunted.

Nick always came back to the lab when it was like this. He didn't care if it wasn't his shift. It just felt more right. The lab techs were in a meeting and most of the CSIs on shift were out on cases, or at least in evidence or interrogation rooms. The day and swing shift DNA techs were always working in the other DNA lab, leaving that familiar room open and available.

In the stillness of the two emptied rooms, the locker room and the night shift's DNA lab, Nick could always pretend.

He didn't need to see Greg to know that he was there. As much effort as Greg had put into his hair, his image was not -- was never -- what defined him. It was the noise and the motion that made him Greg Sanders.

Nick only needed to hear the gentle noises of the lab -- a click or a swoosh or a chirp -- coming from any direction, to know that Greg was there. He didn't need to actually hear words, physically spoken, because he knew Greg well enough to imagine the dialogues in his head. He didn't need to see a tangible Greg standing in front of him because Nick would never forget what he looked like.

Memories of their life together echoed off the walls of the two rooms, leaving Nick surrounded, submerged in haunted, fluorescent and inebriated amour.

But this time it felt different. Rich experiences, conversations and _life_ with Greg were drowned out, interrupted in Nick's mind by fierce shards of flashbacks. Warrick and Catherine's words -- insisting that Greg was dead, that the case was closed, that his corpse would rot away somewhere, unloved -- cut through his imaginary world like the fists and feet and bullets that had cut through the corpse, now ghost, that Nick loved so much. And it hurt.

Flurries of conflicting thoughts resonated and bounced through the chambers of his subconscious, and he could never predict, nor control, which ones sliced through into his immediate awareness. It was a nightmare and his best dream, swirled together and come alive.

But, in each vibrant scene of imaginations' mélanges, it was the immediate words -- still sharp and focused in his mind -- that cut through and lingered furthest.

Even the empty locker room, where they'd shared one of their first, and favorite, kisses, held no restitution to his former state of pseudo-sanity, and all he was left with was noxious, all-pervasive, obliterating grief.

His friends' words were a razor, shredding his fantasy of denial once and for all.

* * *

Nick stared at the now-empty locker. It was all clean, though it would only be a matter of time before Wendy made it hers. No trace of Greg. _But the smell..._

He sniffed the air. It smelled like Greg's hair gel.

xxxxxxx

_"Geez, Greggo. What's takin' ya so long in there? You're like a freakin' woman, takin' an hour in the bathroom."_

_A response came from the closed door. "Oh, come on. Like you love the way my hair stands up."_

_Nick rolled his eyes. "For your information, I notice your eyes a lot more. Seriously. You really think _I_ care about how your hair looks? I just want to get out the door."_

_"Well, we go in separate cars anyways, so what's the difference?"_

Oh no, _Nick had thought. _Not this discussion again... _He went for the door. Locked. With expert CSI skill, he reached for a paper clip. _Well, there's no law against breaking in to your own bathroom, _he thought. The door popped open, revealing a shirtless Greg staring carefully up into the mirror as he pinched what looked to be three individual pieces of hair, all of which were covered in gel, and held the pieces up._

_"There's a reason I locked the door," he said without even looking up at Nick._

_"Like I haven't seen you without a shirt on before," Nick responded with a smirk._

_Greg rolled his eyes. "But you comin' in here removes the mystique of my hair care routine."_

_Nick guffawed. "Mystique, eh?"_

_"Yes," Greg said, biting his lip as he moved on to the next few hairs._

_Nick rolled his eyes. Eventually, he thought, he would convince Greg that Greg's _mystique _had very little to do with "zesty"-scented hair gel. _

Nick chuckled, staring at the locker. Later that day, he had finally convinced Greg that hair gel was unnecessary, though his method had been of... arguable morals...

_Greg had been immersed in his case -- stressed out, really. Finally a CSI 1, he was determined to prove himself. A little too determined, Nick thought. Greg pulled ridiculous hours on his cases. Nick knew it was enough when Greg had Sara beat for overtime that month. And Sara, Nick had insisted, had an excuse. _Her_ boyfriend was a fellow workaholic, and he wouldn't be waiting at home for her. Greg just gave Nick a mischievous smile. _

_"Then why don't you go home? You sure aren't waiting for me at home right now."_

_Nick rolled his eyes. _

_"Really! How do you know I'm not just working here until you do, so you'll have to make dinner and put the kids to bed by the time I get home?"_

_Nick chuckled, shaking his head. "Well, Mr. Genius. I'd say, first of all, I know that because the _kids_ you speak of are two cockroaches you adopted from Grissom that don't exactly need to be _tucked _in."_

_Greg glared. "That's the second time this conversation you've mentioned Grissom. If I didn't know any better, I'd think you were cheating on me with him."_

_"And second," he leaned in to whisper in Greg's ears conspiratorially. "I don't think you wear the pants in this relationship."_

_Greg glared harder, his tips of his dark eyebrows almost touching his impossibly long eyelashes._

_"And the _real _reason you know I'm not cheating with Grissom is --"_

_"You wouldn't be able to handle _that _many cockroaches."_

_"Exactly."_

_"You know, you'd have more time to work if you didn't take an hour fixing your spiky hair."_

_Greg raised an eyebrow. "Is that so?"_

_"Yes."_

_"I'd have more time to spend fixing your breakfast, you mean, Mr." -- Greg finished his sentence in a high-pitched vocal imitation -- "I-wear-the-pants-in-this-relationship."_

_Nick chuckled. "I'd love to actually have breakfast with you every once in a while." He added in an even more high-pitched voice, "I'll even make you your favorite Belgian waffles, honey."_

_Greg cringed. "If I never have to hear you sound like Catherine saying 'honey' again, I'll be happy to eat breakfast with you. But you _will_ be cooking."_

_Greg had stopped spiking his hair after that, and eventually went to the salon to get it highlighted differently. Nick couldn't decide whether he liked the shaggy look or the spiky look better on Greg, but he did know the longer hair had been easier to grab. Then again, he didn't mind it when Greg had cut his hair short and simple. It saved time to spend in so many other ways... _He lost himself in fantasies of that perfect, highlighted or not, spiked or shaggy, delicious hair, and how it felt in his hands as he --

"No," Nick told himself. He stared back at the locker, smelling the gel again. It brought back too many memories. _"It wasn't supposed to go like this..."_

Choking back tears, he fled the locker room.

**

* * *

**

_THE CASINO_

_Louder yelling emerged, and, in a whirlwind, a heavy load fell to the ground with a groan. _

_All Nick saw was red._

_They sat in silence. Nick watched Catherine and Greg weave in and out of consciousness, terrified. He couldn't tolerate it. _

_Carefully, and slowly, he inched toward his half-prostrate lover, moving a comforting hand over Greg's flushed forehead as he turned the younger man around on the ground. _

_Unfocused eyes wandered, gently, yet frantically ambling through and past Greg's line of sight. _

_"Come on, Greggo. Stay with me." Nick could feel the tears gathering in his eyes. _

_"Tell Cath," Greg rasped out. "Hafto tell Cath."_

_"Tell Cath what?"_

_"Thank you... keep... promise." Greg nodded his head as if verifying the message -- which Nick still didn't understand. "And thank... for being there... being mentor... being friend... being mother... most of all, for making this job fun."_

_Nick now understood what Greg was trying to do -- say his goodbyes -- and Nick would have none of it._

_"Greg, no. You're not going to die. Don't give up yet."_

_Greg stared up at him forlornly, clearly not believing him. He reached up a hand to cover Nick's mouth, trying to shush him. He wagged the pointer finger of his other hand, clearly willing Nick not to speak, and to let Greg finish._

_"Thank Griss..." Greg cleared his throat, and seemed to be regaining his voice -- a good sign. "Thank Griss for giving me the chance. For teaching me so much. For keeping me in line. Tell him..." Greg cracked a smile -- Nick didn't know how he did it. "Tell him... I would have gotten him a life supply of chocolate-covered... grasshoppers for his wedding present... and that I had the best toast lined up." Greg laughed, though it came out as more of a painful hack._

_Nick sat silently, waiting for the words to end, so that he could convince Greg that none of this was necessary._

_"Tell Sara sorry. She's had too many people die on her already. Tell her to keep being strong, and that Grissom will come around eventually, but if he doesn't, she should still come out and kick his sorry, bug-eating ass. And tell her thanks for being a best friend._

_"Tell Wendy good luck. I know she can do it. I know she'll kick butt. More than I kicked. And that I'm honored that she's following in my footsteps._

_"And Warrick..." Greg looked into Nick's eyes with clear focus and intentions. "Tell Warrick that he was right about Thackeray. He'll know what I mean."_

_Greg breathed out with a scratchy throat. Nick knew part of the reason lay with the screams forced out but, seeing the confused eyes, he knew there was something more. The edge of crimson sneaking over thin pink lips, already bruised from biting down to stifle screams, confirmed his unfortunate conjecture. _

_"Come on, Greg." Nick rubbed the sweaty, blood- and tear-stained forehead below him vigorously. "Please. Greggo. I've gotcha. Please." He pushed back tears yet again. "Please don't die on me."_

_Another scratched murmur greeted him. _

_Nick turned Greg's head around. He didn't want to look into the pained eyes, not when they were _that_ way. More practically, he didn't want Greg to choke on the blood. He could only hope the blood came from Greg's mouth, rather than up through his throat, from internal organs.  
_

_Nick began stroking Greg's shoulders, covering the feeble body in front of him with any means of warmth that he could think of. _

_Greg let loose a cough, which quickly turned into dry heaving. Greg winced, gripping his stomach at every movement, leaving even more bitter possibilities for the cause in Nick's mind. _

_Nick's stomach churned at the possibilities and Nick stuttered as he tried to comfort his lover and best friend. _

_"St--stay with me. P-please."_

_He was surprised to see Greg twist his neck, wincing less at the motion, before staring up at Nick. His eyes were suddenly, surprisingly focused, but it did little to alleviate Nick's concerns. All he saw in the gaze was pain, resentment, sorrow and, worst of all, acquiescence. _

_"Ah..." Whatever Greg was trying or not trying to say was cut off by another cough, and Nick could see a few more specks of blood oozing out. _

_Greg looked up imploringly, begging Nick to understand, before stumbling over his words again. His mouth was wide, and he looked pained at every movement of his jaw. _

_"Ah..." Greg let loose another pained sob, clearly trying to repress more screams and hold down the no doubt excruciating pains. _

_"N-Nicky," he whispered, voice husky and garbled. He was clearly putting much effort into looking Nick in the eye. The pain in Greg's eyes was one of the most excruciating things Nick had ever witnessed. Greg shakily reached a hand up to cup Nick's face, even as the hand trembled. _

_"I-- I-- mm -- I'm sorry," Greg finally whispered._

_Nick didn't know how to respond. _

_"F-for what?" he got out shakily._

_Greg blinked his eyes slowly, staring off in to space, or at the door -- away from Nick. _

_"I'm sorry," Greg repeated, his voice gaining strength. He gripped Nick's hand, and Nick was relieved to feel so much strength still in the younger CSI's hand. _

_"You have nothing to --"_

_Nick was interrupted by a surprisingly lucid stare from Greg, and a hand pushing up to cover Nick's mouth again. Greg shook his head at Nick, clearly willing his boyfriend not to speak._

_Nick nodded quietly, waiting._

_Greg took a deep breath. "You have to promise me." He still avoided Nick's gaze, even as he spoke, voice drenched in emotion. "Promise me you'll..." _

_He paused, his eyes welling with tears, but he finally managed to look Nick in the eyes. _

_"Promise me you'll keep going." The pitch of his voice grew higher as the last words flew out. "Promise me --" _

_He paused again, clearly thinking. Nick didn't know whether to cry or breathe a happy sigh of relief when Greg crinkled his brow -- he looked so cute when he did that._

_Greg's voice was still scratchy. "I know a lot of people... say that they don't want to be forgotten," he started and paused again. _

_Nick couldn't see where he was going._

_"But... you have to keep living, Nick. Please."_

_Nick stared at him, still confused._

_"You can forget me."_

_Nick gagged on the response he couldn't possibly come up with and that certainly wouldn't come out._

_"You're a great guy, Nick. I -- I wanted..." _

_Tears reappeared on Greg's face. He had clearly long given up on holding back the tears, but he still maintained the fight against loud sobs, opting instead for as dignified an exit as possible._

_Greg cleared his throat, blinked away tears and continued. "I wanted to be the one... to be with you. To grow old... and love you forever... with you. But... I should have known it wouldn't work out. You deserve love -- someone who loves you --" Greg paused. "But someone that _you_ can love also."_

_Nick stared back, still speechless._

_Greg's voice grew higher -- more pained -- under his boyfriend's stare, and under the desolate circumstances. "Promise me you'll live your life. Find somebody." _

_The next words came with fortitude, and a strong, sturdy gaze into Nick's eyes._

_"You have to forget about me. I've heard what people say, but remembering is overrated. You deserve to be happy, Nick."_

_Nick stared back, tears filling up his eyes as he finally realized what Greg was trying to say. _

_Greg seemed to be trying to speak again -- the same words, approximately -- as if trying to convince himself as well as Nick. Nick knew now, even as he couldn't imagine, just how painful and difficult of a message this was for Greg to deliver. _

_"I wanted to be... with you. But I can't. I never could. And I know it now." He paused, rolling his lips back to bite back tears. "You..." _

_Greg laid a gentle hand over Nick's, but held back more tears. "Whoever you find... they'll be lucky. You're a great guy, Nick. Go find someone -- a... guy... or a girl -- a lady. Someone good." _

_Nick could tell the words were genuine, and that was what made it all the harder to hear._

_"Whoever they are, they'll be lucky to have you." Nick could hear the tears that Greg was barely holding back in his voice. "Someone that lucky -- they can tell the world about you. They should. Find someone who can actually make you happy -- like I couldn't."_

_Nick moved to protest, but couldn't. Greg continued._

_"Find someone you can be proud to be with. Who can make you smile every time you look at them." He looked wistful for a moment. __"I know... I know what we had wasn't perfect. It never was. But you made me happy. Find someone who can do the same for you." Greg turned his head to let the tears fall away, as best he could. __"It's a wonderful feeling, trust me. And you deserve to feel that way, Nick. You deserve to be happy Nick. Promise me --" Two tears stuck in Greg's eyes as he looked up, his gaze so sad, but, more than anything, so strong and resolute; so determined. "Promise me you'll be happy."  
_

_It was Nick who finally lost it, breaking into loud sobs. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Catherine look up sympathetically._

_"Greg, I --" He barely got the words out, in between sobs, before he was interrupted by Greg's gentle shushing shake of the head. _

_"No, Nick. Stop." The words were whispered so softly and sweetly._

_Greg gulped again and regained his composure, which, in turn, forced Nick to do the same. "Greg, I -- I, I love y--"_

_"__Don't say that just because I'm dying." __Greg shushed him again, though his gaze remained transfixed on some spot across the room.__ "Not__ if -- _when_ -- you don't mean it." _

_Holding back his own tears was now impossible, and Nick stuttered over any trace of a response. "Ah-- ah -- I..." _

_Choking back a maelstrom of tears, he finally gave up on words and just settled for stroking Greg's forehead as he maneuvered Greg's head to, once again, lie sideways, parallel to the ground, to ensure that Greg's airway stayed clear._

_Greg sobbed again, this time more loudly._

_The door opened again. Ari angrily cast a walkie-talkie into Catherine's hands, and it was painfully obvious what had happened. _

_Ari approached Nick and Greg, walking slowly -- deliberately -- over, to face Greg._

_"You ready?" His stare was penetrating, but unreadable. _

_Greg nodded, slowly and weakly, giving Nick one last long, sad stare. As tears leaked out of Greg's eyes, he reached up a trembling, bloody hand to gently caress the side of Nick's face._

_"I'm sorry, Nicky."_

_Nick didn't have a chance to respond before Ari was prying Greg out of his arms. "Wh-- what -- why?" His words stumbled out._

_"We're putting him out of his misery."_

_Nick gasped. "N -- no -- no!"_

_"Too late now. He already agreed. Didn't you, bitch?"_

_Greg sobbed, but Nick couldn't mistake the small nod. _

_"Greg no!"_

_Greg's last stare conveyed all apologies, as he was half-dragged, half-carried out of the room, into the parking lot._

_Sixty seconds later, Nick heard the gunshot, and the short, pained scream._

**

* * *

**PRESENT**  
**

Everything was a blur. He had no idea where to go. Each room of the lab was another container of invisible, intangible memories, capable of opening another can of worms for Nick, should he choose to enter. Spinning around, he could see no escape. The lab techs' meeting had clearly ended, and he found himself interspersed in clumps of people, all traversing LVPD for whatever reason.

Nick escaped to his car. Pushing his head back against the worn, polyester seat, he closed his eyes and hoped that the memories would find silence, but it was little use.

He took a deep breath and tried to reassure himself of his next move. _But what _is_ my next move?_ he asked himself. His own cases, suddenly, meant nothing. They were just notches on a long, long ladder paving his way towards whatever his dull destiny entailed. He had no need for it. He didn't want to climb his ladder alone.

Words continued to assault him.

_"Closure, Nicky. You've got to find closure."_ Warrick. Where had he come from? How come Nick didn't talk to him so much anymore? Why did he _care_?

_"The case... the case is closed, Nick. I'm sorry... The case is closed."_ That was Catherine, swinging her arm up and around him, trying to halt his fall in a strong embrace. But he was so ready to fall... or was he?

He had wanted to be buried next to Greg, so that their ladders to... wherever it was... still, no matter the time, sat side by side. But Greg had no burial, no coffin, no closure. And there was nobody to get it for him. Nick stared back into the building, imagining the ghost waiting for him, on some other side. Imagining the lonely tombstone. The one that would say Greg was a beloved son. Thirty-three years and just a son -- nobody else listed as loving him.

Greg deserved closure, and Nick wouldn't fall until he got that. It was the least he could do for his beloved ghost.

Tearing out of the car and back into the lab with a fury, Nick found his last case. Frantically, he reached for his journal and retraced every piece of memory from the night. _That_ night.

Sixteen hours later, by the time the rest of night shift had filtered in, every potential piece of evidence to be found from the casino heist had been recorded in Nick's journal. And Nick was a man with a mission.

Returning to the locker room, he reached for the backpack, filled generously by Warrick with the contents of Greg's locker. He looked at the locker with a smile.

"I'm gonna find you, Greggo. I don't care if the Feds gave up. _I'll_ find you. _I_ love you. And I'm not ashamed of it."

END OF PART 1

* * *

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Thanks to AppreciatesFineLabRats (love the screen name XP), LostLadyKnight, SuzSeb, Lil'SpenceFan, Atticus, Marifw, LittleWing, QueenOfTheUniverse and Longas91 for reviews on the last chapter! Props to another reader (who will remain anonymous, this time, because they emailed me and didn't leave a screenname) for picking up on a special clue for later in the story. Thanks especially for you guys' feedback on the transition marks. It was very useful, especially in the construction of this chapter (and in assuaging my concerns about the previous one).

~Harper

P.S. Please review!


	14. Los Nuevos Comienzos

_Salvar: to save, to overcome, to preserve, to rescue, to cover, to pass_

_Salvarse: to survive, to escape_

_

* * *

_

**Important Author's Note:** Please be aware that all passages reflect the perspectives of the narrating characters, and that these characters' perspectives are not always the most accurate or objective. Some characters are worse than others. When it comes to Nick and Greg's relationship, this is especially pronounced. Keep your eye out for skewed and changing dynamics between the two, as revealed in flashbacks and Nick's general thoughts toward the subject, and know that any character's anguish is not necessarily the most accurate lens through which to view the relationship (or anything). The relationship itself is more complicated than Nick initially lets on, and the primary conflict is much bigger and much more universal than one character's refusal to come out of the closet, even if that may seem to be the case at points.

And finally we have a... one part chapter. Enjoy! Title translates to 'New Beginnings'.

**CHAPTER 14: LOS NUEVOS COMIENZOS**

Wendy knew she was in for a long day. Nick Stokes would hardly be help, at least in the way Catherine, Warrick and even Grissom had been. It would be a quiet investigation, one with little to no conversation to hold off the monotony of the case. Nick was a tough critic and all talk would be devoted to drilling her about the case. Working a scene with Nick reminded her of being back in prep school, with teachers quizzing her constantly.

When she arrived at the scene, she moved quickly toward the back of the alley -- the scene of the crime -- hoping to evade Nick for as long as possible.

She quickly scanned the space, her eyes hitting SuperDave, who was bent over a small corpse. Wendy bit her lip, knowing the case had just gotten harder. She remembered the note Catherine had passed her before she headed out.

_Watch out for Nicky. This kind of case gets to him._

Part of Wendy was curious to see her co-worker's reaction, having seen him maintain his cold façade for so long. It would be almost refreshing to be reminded that he did in fact still have emotions. Then again, their brief encounter in the locker room had been proof of that very fact, and not in the most reassuring, positive way.

She walked over to "SuperDave," the assistant coroner, and stared down at the small corpse being examined.

David was crouched down protectively next to the body, staring almost angrily off into space, clearly affected as well by the cruelty inflicted on the young body in front of him.

Wendy sighed. Warrick had warned her about the first case.

"_The first case to hit you. The first child assault case. They hit everyone hard."_

Wendy hadn't doubted Warrick's words, but they came more alive at the image. The girl was young, probably in elementary or middle school. _She had a life in front of her_, Wendy thought sadly. _Instead, she's lying on the ground, naked, bloody and broken. _

Dave looked up, a somber and empathetic greeting in his eyes.

"This is gonna be a hard case," Wendy said quietly.

Dave nodded.

"She bled out." His voice was restrained. Not much needed to -- or should -- be said, in such a graveyard. Peaceful and respectful silence was the only way to treat such a scene, one that had seen a butchering of the innocent girl lying on the floor. "She's been dead about eight hours."

It took all of her energy to ask SuperDave, "SAE?"

Dave nodded, before handing her a file. "Here's the information. I know this is your first child... assault... case." He clearly struggled for the most neutral word to describe the fate that had befallen the young girl. "I tried to make it a little easier, and already took the SAE. I may not be a CSI, but... I know how hard it is to handle this kind of case. Especially if you're not used to it."

She smiled gratefully at the gesture. Normally she would be the one to collect the SAE kit, but Dave had taken it for her, sparing her another painful point of the case. And she could approach the information -- the bloody details, written in as medical and objective a way as possible -- at the easiest pace. It would make it all the easier to deal with the remainder of cruelty in front of her.

"Somehow, my wife and I... we never end up having kids." He looked up at Wendy. "We have a niece. Probably a year or two younger than her."

He gestured at the body. "Maura Greene. Age 8." He paused, pushing back mousy brown hair from the face with his latex-covered hand. "Or at least that's what it says here." He picked up a sheet of paper. It looked like a worksheet – the kind an eight-year-old would be doing. 'Ten out of ten' was written in red ink, along with a smiley face. Hand prints were visible on the sheet, as if the girl had been clutching it, and, sure enough, at the top it read 'Name: Maura Greene.' 'Ms. Chen's third grade class' was written at the bottom of the sheet.

Dave looked up sadly. He looked to be in some separate world.

"She wants a kid so badly. Last night, we talked about it. I was so close to saying yes." He looked over the body again. "Every time we're almost there, almost to the point of deciding to go for it... I see another case like this... and realize I'd never want to bring anyone into this world."

"I'm sorry." It was the only thing Wendy could think to say.

"I guess that's what I get for wanting to work with dead bodies. I just always assumed they'd be old people -- people who were supposed to die. Or at least people who died some cool way. Something that would be interesting to autopsy. Something like that green blood we found back in the day."

"Sulfur."

"Hodges said you knew it from Star Trek."

Wendy chuckled. "_Hodges_ doesn't know what he's talking about."

David chuckled, raising an eyebrow.

"Spock, from Star Trek, has green blood because of copper, _not_ sulfur. Contrary to Hodges' theory."

David laughed again, shaking his head. "You guys deserve each other. Trekkies."

"Archie's a Trekkie too."

"I guess that's the defining characteristic of you lab rats."

"No matter how much I train to be a CSI -- how many cases like _this_ I work -- I'll always still be a lab rat at heart. Because I know what makes Spock's blood green."

She sighed happily before looking back at the body.

SuperDave wasn't normally the chattiest. It wasn't that he wasn't talkative, just that he tended to be nervous. She knew the feeling. Henry did the same thing, growing antsy around the big, important CSIs.

She took Dave's unusual show of emotion as a sign of camaraderie. She was, after all, still a lab tech. Dave was closer to the techs than the CSIs, and Wendy, Henry and Archie had even met his wife at one point. He often went to lunch with the techs as well. This time, though, she realized that his words were probably due, in equal part, to the case itself -- the brutality of it.

"I'm sure you and Cindy will do a great job raising a kid. You'd scare her, or him, out of getting into any sketchy situations."

He sighed, nodding. "I wonder what kind of job _her_ parents did."

"I guess that's part of what I'm here to find out," she replied, ducking down to examine the body more closely, snapping on her own gloves in the same motion. "You done with the body?"

Dave nodded. He sighed, standing up. "I guess I'm off. Got another DB off the Strip. Never been so glad to process a shot druggie."

She laughed drily. "Have fun."

"You too. Err... have... patience... and endurance."

"Thanks," she replied. "I guess I'll need that more than fun."

He nodded, before walking towards his car. "See ya."

Wendy bent down to take a look at the body for herself.

Dried blood covered the girl's upper legs. Wendy was relieved that her eyes were closed. Wendy didn't want to think about having to see the victim's pained, terrified eyes.

She pulled out her flashlight, scanning for any hint of blood on the ground. _If this is just a drop sight, then there's not gonna be much to process here._

Her eyes, and flashlight, caught on a set of tire treads. They looked like skid marks, and they cut off within feet of the body. She could easily see the path a van would have taken, wheeling around and dumping the body before turning around sharply and leaving the alley.

Glancing over at the body, she made her choice and headed to process the skid marks. The markings, as she quickly found, were very clear, and printed in a heavy mud. She had no doubt she'd be able to match the tires. If she was lucky, she might even be able to match the mud. Quickly but meticulously, she lost herself in the task, cutting off all emotion-ridden thoughts on the small DB.

Tire tread impressions collected, she stared down at her watch. _Wow. It's already been 2 hours here._

She moved back to the body warily, when a noise distracted her. She froze. _Who would be in this alley?! _Glancing around, she could see that it was largely deserted. The buildings bordering it were both abandoned, and the alley led nowhere. She could see little reason for anyone to come there. _Other than to commit a crime... or to cover their tracks... Oh shit._

Gently and quietly she inched forward, laying herself down flat against the pavement. _Hopefully they'll either not notice me, or think I'm dead,_ she thought, breathing fast.

The sound grew closer and by now she knew it was definitely footsteps.

She blinked back tears. _Guess I'm going to go join Greg in more ways than one._ She could vaguely hear a conversation. _That means two of them. Twice the number of eyes to stop me. Half the chance of me escaping... probably more than half. There's basically no chance..._

The conversation stopped, and she held her breath, focusing on looking dead. _Maybe I can even steal some blood from the DB, cover the back of my neck in it. _

There was no cop car in sight -- she knew the cops were outside the entrance to the alley. Whoever it was that was creating the noise _-- the perp_ -- could easily have come down the supposedly abandoned building's fire escape. _And the cops wouldn't have even noticed._

She choked back more tears. _Pull it together, Simms. There _could _be another explanation. _

Her whole life flashed before her eyes, as the perps' conversation remained halted. _They must be looking around_, she thought with a shiver. _What will they do if they find me?_ She drew her eyes to the girl lying a few feet away. _Oh God. Please don't let them do _that_ to me. _This time, she was sure they heard the sob she let out.

_Oh God. Oh God, oh God, oh God. I'm gonna die. I'm gonna get.... that... that's gonna happen.... and then I'm going to die. _She tried to stop the fearful trembling.

The steps came closer.

"Wendy? Sorry I'm late. You need any help?"

She knew the voice. And for some reason, the idea of Nick Stokes offering help and acting quite that friendly seemed less plausible than her original, more frightening assumption.

Nonetheless, she grasped the second guess.

"Yeah. Sorry," she said, gulping down her fear. "Scared me."

She stood up shakily, breathing deeply in relief and gratitude for the relative dark hiding the tear stains on her face.

"Sorry. I was on the phone."

_Well that explains the one-ended conversation._ "No problem. Just don't do that again. Sneak up on me, I mean. I thought you were another perp. Didn't see your car either."

"Ah." Nick nodded, understanding her fear. He pointed to the stairs. "I had to go into the building. Didn't want anyone to hear my conversation. Then I came down the stairs."

She nodded.

"So, what have we got?"

"420... and a 426."

"And you're sure it's not natural causes? Plenty of druggies die in alleys like this. And the sex could have been consensual."

"She was in third grade."

"Oh." The silence was harsh and understanding.

"And, even if she wasn't..." Wendy paused. "I don't think anyone would consent to _that_." She held the flashlight over the body, illuminating the blood that had run down the girl's legs.

She knew Nick was scowling at the heinous scene. "I see." He looked up at her, and she could see the tears in his eyes as well, though they looked like they'd been there for a while. "You got it processed?"

"Most of it. Dave took the SAE for me." She waited for his chastisement. She knew Nick would not approve of her ducking the work. Work, these days, was his life, and he seemed to live off his cases.

"That was nice of him," he replied, surprising her.

"I... I'm not in trouble?"

"No. Don't worry about it. As long as the case gets done. How much you got on it anyways?"

"I've got the tire treads matched up. Look like skid marks."

"Sounds good. This definitely looks to be the drop sight, so I'd say we're good gettin' out of here and lettin' Doc Robbins process the body."

"Wait... that's all? Don't you always process a lot more, just in case?" Wendy remembered back to all the cases Nick had worked in the last few weeks, including the Wal-Mart employee. He knew the cases down to the nail. It surprised her that he would leave without dusting every wall of the alley.

"Nah. We're good."

A vibrating cell phone interrupted the conversation. "Mr. Brivio. Hi. Yeah." Nick began walking away, clearly unaware that Wendy was following him.

"I called about the file. I know it's confidential, damnit, but I _need _that file." He paused, before replying, voice deep, angry and intimidating -- quiet in the quiet-before-the-storm, don't-follow-my-orders-and-I'll-have-you-killed sort of way. "Get me the files or you'll regret it."

He paused, breathing in deeply. "You _know_ what I'll do."

Silence again. "Any amount of money. You name it, I'll pay it. Just get me the file."

Silence again, and Wendy could see Nick growing more and more furious. "I don't give a _shit_ what the FBI says. What I'm doing is _none_ of the FBI's business, and it _will_ stay that way. And I don't care what your operative in Mexico says. Give. Me. The. Damn. Files..."

Wendy could almost hear the man on the other end, talking hurriedly, anxiously, _almost as if he's really afraid of what Nick's gonna do if he doesn't get the file_.

"Don't you dare hang up on me, Gio."

_Shit, is he dealing with the mafia? _It all made sense now, Wendy could see.

"Damnit don't hang up on me!" Nick slammed the phone shut, and Wendy backed away, quickly but quietly, turning around as if she was looking at the alley walls.

"You see something?"

_Maybe Nick's pretending he doesn't know I heard his conversation?_

"Can't quite tell."

She heard him turn around and approach her. She held her breath, hoping he wasn't about to shoot her for hearing too much. _But if he's gonna kill me, it wouldn't be here. He's a CSI. He knows better. We're both listed as working a case here, so everything would point back to him and I being here last. _Somehow, however, the thought was hardly reassuring.

Nick leaned closer and looked at the wall. To Wendy's surprise, he laughed. She turned around, growing more and more scared. It was surprisingly hard to tell the difference between a sinister laugh and a genuine one. _On Star Trek, it's so much easier_, she thought, grimacing.

"Nice try."

_Uh oh. I guess he does know I was listening. Mandy always told me not to eavesdrop... but then, Mandy just relied on Archie to hear everything firsthand._ She turned around, readying to knee Nick in the groin, if necessary.

Nick reached a hand out.

"Uh..." she stammered. "But..."

"Oh, yeah. You're right. Sorry." He reached into his pocket, and she bit her lip. He drew out a pair of gloves, slapping them on.

"Y-y-you know... if you're really worrying about getting DNA or blood on your hands, you can always wash them later." _Why am I helping him figure out how to kill me without it being obvious? He's a CSI Level 3. He knows anyways._

"Heh. I've been a CSI for how long?" He raised an eyebrow, and Wendy didn't even bother stammering out a reply. _I already know he knows what he's doing. Of course he knows how to clean up evidence._

He continued, "I doubt it's evidence, but no taking risks. Most importantly," he started –

Wendy backed away carefully –

"Gum is sticky, and I don't really want it all over my hands. Hard to wash off, you know?"

Wendy nodded, thoroughly confused. Then she saw Nick reach out to the wall, at the spot she'd been pretending to stare at. He pulled off a small white, gooey...

_Piece of gum_.

Wendy released a sigh.

"I doubt it's related to the scene, but if you want to process it, be my guest. Maybe the gum chewer was in the alley at the same time. Maybe we've even got ourselves a witness." Grabbing an empty evidence bag from Wendy, he carefully bagged the gum and took off his gloves. He patted Wendy on the back, and she tried to relax. "Good find."

Wendy just nodded. She had no idea what was going on with Nick Stokes.

* * *

THE LAB

"So, how do you want to do this?"

Catherine looked up from the bullet indentations she was studying. Warrick sat across from her at the Ballistics station.

She looked cautiously over at the bullets she was holding. "For these?"

He shook his head. "For your case. Ari Marvin's case. Tam Jared's case. Whichever it is."

Catherine nodded, stuck in thought.

"We already know that Ari killed him, right?"

"Yes."

"So we're trying to..."

"Find the motive. Ari said that he did it... did..." She came close to choking up, yet again. "That he did what he did, at the casino." She held up quotation marks. "'For Tam.'"

Warrick nodded.

"We need to figure out what he meant by that. How that casino heist was connected, in any way, to Tam Jared. The casino's owned by Tam's dad, but that still doesn't explain any sort of motive."

Warrick nodded, puzzled over the debacle. "So... should we research Tam Jared then? Like, his life?"

Catherine looked up, squinting in thought, before shaking her head. "I know enough about his life. It's his murder that Ari was convicted for."

"But don't we know the motive, then? Wouldn't it be tied to whatever his motive was for killing Tam?"

"That's the thing. His motive was off. Somebody fudged the report or something. The official account was that Ari killed Tam because Tam rejected him. It says that Tam was never with Ari in the first place. And that's patently untrue."

"So the evidence, which never lies, is fine. It's just the interpretation -- the interviews, and detectives' investigations -- that's wrong, and the motive that we're after."

"Yes."

"So, we need to research accounts of his death, interviews with known associates, probably?"

"Sounds right."

Warrick stood still in thought for a few seconds before getting up. "I'll see what I can do," he said as he edged toward the door.

* * *

_NEARING THE CASINO  
_

_Warrick drove frantically, images of Catherine, Nick and Greg all beaten soundly coursing through his head. Of course, the conversation with Mr. Jared hadn't been successful, but he still had the getaway vehicle._

_He pulled up in back of the casino, in the agreed upon spot. He glanced around, and was relieved to see Greg. He was being dragged by a man masked and dressed in black, but at least he was alive. Catherine had mentioned that Greg had gotten beaten up a bit, which Warrick could tell from looking at his younger colleague. Nonetheless, he was alive._

_Warrick rushed out of the SUV, gun in hand. _

_"Drop the weapon," the man -- probably Ari, judging by the voice -- ordered, as he pointed his own gun at Greg, who looked tired, hurt and miserable._

_Warrick complied, dropping his weapon and kicking it away. Ari approached him, and the last thing Warrick remembered was a gunshot, the back of a gun and a sharp pain in his head._

* * *

THE LAB

An hour later, Warrick reappeared, holding old newspaper clippings. "Cath?"

Catherine looked up from the report she was writing, having just closed her assigned case. "You got something?" she asked eagerly.

"Yep. Newspaper articles. Nothing major. The story pretty much sticks with the official story. Ari pursues Tam romantically and gets rejected. Ari kills Tam in alley in revenge. Two bullets. Every clipping I found said the same thing. And, according to your account, which I trust more, they're all wrong."

Catherine glared in frustration. "We've got nothing."

"You know, we could just stick with what we do best."

"Go back to our cases, you mean."

"No. Not exactly. I mean, we should still keep up with those too. But we can go back to the evidence in the Jared murder --"

"Tam," Catherine corrected him reflexively, still unable to think of her old friend on anything but a first-name basis, and certainly not as another anonymous dead body.

Warrick nodded. "We can take a look at the evidence in Tam Jared's murder. You said you had at least something, right?"

Catherine nodded. "Wait. Do any of the clippings you found have pictures? We can't do anything, or at least not much, with people's accounts, but the pictures, hopefully, can't lie _too_ much."

"True. Yeah. That's the one I printed. It had exclusives. Apparently they got leaked to the press, and had to be rescinded from most papers. But this tabloid still had it," he said, handing over the old magazine.

Catherine spread it out over the table, looking with sadness at the photos -- her friend lying face up, with blood oozing out from his head. At first glance, it almost looked as if there was only one gunshot.

"Wait. I thought it was the other one that killed him," she asked.

"What do you mean?"

"Official cause of death was _bleeding out_ from the bullet wound to his chest. But there's barely any _blood_ there. You can barely see the gunshot wound."

Warrick raised an eyebrow.

"Okay. Slight exaggeration. But it does almost look like the bullet to the chest was an afterthought, and it definitely looks like it was fired post-mortem. Judging by the blood splatter from the shot to the head, and by his eyes, I'd say _that's_ definitely the one that killed him," she said, pointing to the head. "Not the bullet to the chest."

Warrick looked at the picture more closely. "You're right. There's barely any blood coming out of that chest wound -- definitely not enough to bleed out. Almost like there was barely any blood left when it hit him --"

"Or at least like his heart wasn't pumping blood when he got the chest wound."

"Yeah." He paused. "Do you have the coroner's report for the body? Maybe that differs from the tabloids, and they all just got the story wrong."

"Seems like a big thing to get wrong."

Warrick thought for a moment. "Nah. Not really. A big deal to you or me, but not to the general public. Differences in gunshots just aren't that..."

"Interesting?"

He chuckled. "Sure. Let's go with that."

Warrick held up the coroner's report. "Eh. He agrees with the tabloids. Says it was the shot to the chest that killed him."

"But that's clearly not true." Catherine was shocked. "That's -- that's..." She struggled for words to describe the coroner's incompetence. "That's a blatant mistake... or a lie..."

"Yeah. The coroner, Gary Schwartzgreiner, has been gone for a while. And it looked like he was relatively young when he performed the autopsy."

"Wait. Schwartzgreiner, you said?"

"You know him?"

"I think so. It sounds familiar."

"Could just be from a case?"

Catherine furrowed her brow, trying to remember where she'd heard that name. "No. No, definitely not. I remember Sam mentioning him."

"Sam? As in Sam Braun? Your dad?"

Catherine nodded.

"Sam Braun who owned the Tangiers, and who would have been the boss of Mr. Jared, Tam's father?"

Catherine nodded her head. "Something's gotta be fishy here."

They both sat still for a moment, recognizing the implications of their discoveries.

Catherine broke the silence. "So, what do we do now?"

"Well, we probably can't get to the body, to do another autopsy."

"If we do it'd be a last resort."

"Plus there's probably not much evidence -- or person -- left on it."

Catherine shook her head sadly, clearly thinking of Tam. "He's just bones now."

Warrick nodded, respecting her grief, even if it was 30 years later. "Wait," Warrick began. "If he's in the same circle as Sam, or was, then you think he might know some of the people you know?"

Catherine thought for a moment. "Yeah. Yeah, he probably does."

"You wanna ask around, see what his reputation was, if he was sneakin' back cash from Sam or Mr. Jared?"

"Sounds like a plan."

"And I'll take a harder look at the photos."

"I wonder if Doc Robbins would be able to tell us anything about the body, just from looking?"

"I doubt it. Not if it's that small."

"But if we got Archie to enlarge the picture, focus it and fiddle with it like the brilliant A/V tech that he is..."

Warrick chuckled. "I'll see what he can do. Though I have a feeling Doc Robbins would not be so willing to oblige. I still remember him getting really mad at Nick for trying to re-examine a body after the autopsy. Said it was an insult to the coroner and such."

"Hmm. SuperDave then?"

"Good idea."

"He's too much of a sweetheart to say no."

"You're probably right."

"So," Catherine said, as she began filing the evidence back into the box. "We got our plan?"

"I'd say so."

"Ok. So, now I guess it's back to our assigned cases. We probably shouldn't act too suspicious. I have a feeling that Ecklie wouldn't be too happy to discover we're using _precious lab resources_ to investigate this."

Warrick chuckled again. "I think you're right about that."

Seeing Grissom approaching the room, Catherine gathered the papers together before sticking them all in the box, and hiding it under the table again.

**

* * *

**

_THE CASINO_

_Warrick woke up exhausted, and confused. The ground under him was rough and biting. He looked down at the concrete, finally remembering why he was there._

Catherine!

_Forcing himself to his feet, he winced at the pain in his head. He grasped his head in one hand while reaching around for his discarded gun with the other. The gun, however, was nowhere to be seen. Taking a deep breath, he headed into the building. _

_Catherine and Nick laid side-by-side, and Warrick's first thought was worry that they had been shot, execution style. A groan from Catherine assuaged his fears, as did the moment her head lifted off the ground. _

_"Rick."_

_Looking into her tearstained eyes, he knew something had happened._

_"Cath... what--? Is Nicky alright?"_

_Catherine nodded gravely, still not speaking._

_"Where's Greg?"_

_She broke into tears. "He's gone."_

**

* * *

**

THE LAB

The lab looked the same. Cool blue sheltered glass walls. Cool people ambled through, not looking up.

Las Vegas was as impersonal as ever, and losing Greg Sanders only seemed to deplete its personality further.

A warm, urgent hug broke through the icy façade, and Sara was surprised to see Grissom as its source. Her boyfriend -- if she could even call him that anymore -- had never been the warmest, nor, certainly, one to betray public displays of affection.

"Thanks so much for coming back. It hasn't been the same without you."

She nodded, unsure of what to say. She still didn't feel like she was ready to be back. Her demons were by no means defeated yet.

Nonetheless, Grissom grabbed her hand, almost like a child, and led her down the familiar hallway.

Three team members -- four counting Wendy -- sat on the break room couch, wrapped in what could best be described as awkward silence.

Nick's brows were knit as he pored over a case, clearly oblivious to the woman next to him; Wendy anxiously peered over his shoulder.

Catherine looked up, clearly exhausted, with a challenging but sympathetic look in her eyes. Warrick sat between Wendy and Catherine and sent the most penetrating stare at his former teammate.

He was the first to break the silence. "Sara." He paused, and a smile lit up his face. "We've missed you."

Catherine looked not at Sara but at Warrick, almost as if she were questioning his statement. A second later, though, her welcoming smile was on Sara and she moved off the couch to hug the other woman.

"It's great to have you back."

Warrick nodded and followed her lead, enveloping Sara in another, larger hug.

Wendy tugged on Nick's shirt, and the CSI Level 3 looked up, clearly surprised at Sara's appearance. Tilting his head, seemingly at a loss for how to respond to Sara's reemergence, he finally settled for following Wendy off the couch.

She watched each teammate smile -- one reassuringly, one with relief, one with surprise and another with confusion -- but they were all smiles. She was still welcome.

It wasn't quite home, but it would do.

**-- TBC --**

Reviews are very much appreciated.


	15. El Volver de los Amigos

_Salvar: to save, to overcome, to preserve, to rescue, to cover, to pass_

_Salvarse: to survive, to escape_

* * *

Author's Note: Another one-part chapter. The title means (hopefully, assuming I conjugated the adjective correctly) 'Friends Return.' Three characters from earlier in the story return in this chapter. One of them should be obvious (you last saw him in Chapter 14), but keep your eye out for the other two.

* * *

**CHAPTER 15: EL VOLVER DE LOS AMIGOS  
**

Lindsey sat quietly in the car, chewing bubble gum. Catherine had asked her to sit in the front, so as to allow actual conversation, but Lindsey, being a happily contrarian high-school junior, had rejected the offer.

_At least she said 'no, thank you,'_ Catherine thought warily, grateful that her rebellious teenager still retained the manners drilled into her by Catherine and Catherine's coworkers and friends. Catherine unlocked the doors and the pair made their way to the familiar house.

"So, I'm the bait?"

Catherine rolled her eyes. There was no use keeping her daughter out of the loop. For all her stupid decisions -- which weren't even that numerous, especially in comparison to Catherine's at that age -- Lindsey wasn't a stupid girl.

"I need to talk to your grandmother."

"When she sees _her precious first and only granddaughter, who's grown so much and looks so darn cute_," Lindsey let out, imitating her grandmother's voice well enough to make Catherine laugh, "you know she'll be willing to forget whatever you did that pissed her off last."

"Damn straight."

"Watch your language, _Mom_."

Catherine chuckled. "Will do, _honey_."

The door was open before either Willows had a chance to ring the bell.

"Catherine! Fancy seeing you here! It's been such a long time!" Bertha Torrence was still, by some miracle, hobbling around, and her make-up was just as bad as ever. Lindsey moved her foot quickly to avoided getting stomped on by the cane.

"Nice to see you too, Bertha," Catherine replied, smiling warmly. In fact, Catherine had never been so happy to see Bertha. She knew the older woman, a notorious gossipmonger of scandals old and new, could tell Catherine everything there was to know about Gary Schwartzgreiner, the coroner that had fudged Tam's autopsy. Assuming the visit went well.

"Catherine, darling!" Mabel Earnst, a former mentee of Lily's, was the next to appear. "It's so nice to see you, dear."

She leaned in to air-kiss Catherine's cheeks, one at a time.

_Just like the old days._ Walking into Lily Flynn's house always felt like stepping back into a different day and age. _No wonder Greg was so eager to visit here for research on his book._

Lily Flynn was the last to make her way out. Though she wasn't that old yet, Lily had grown slower in the last year. Catherine knew Sam's death had hit her mother hard.

Lily's pace, however, picked up upon sight of her granddaughter. "Lindsey! Honey! How are you?!"

Lindsey smiled up at her mom, revealing an _I-told-you-so _look, but also a look of genuine love for her grandmother. She filled the rest of the distance to the older woman, reaching up for a strong hug.

Looking forward, Catherine could see that Lindsey didn't even need to reach up so much anymore for her grandmother. With age, Lily had shrunk a bit, but Lindsey had grown a lot. Catherine looked happily at the reunion, even as she plotted how best to get a word with Bertha.

Lindsey solved the problem for her, dragging the two hands immediately next to her toward the couch. "Grandma, Mabel. Let's go sit," she said happily, looking at the plate of cookies already laid out on the coffee table.

Both women chuckled and followed.

Bertha began to hobble over, when Catherine took her hand, gently. "Bertha, would you mind if I had a word?"

Bertha looked puzzled, before nodding her head. "Whatever about, dearie?"

"Well, I'm doing some research for a case --"

Bertha's face lit up. "And you need some info from the woman who knows everybody who's anybody! Of course you do, dearie. Let's go sit down and talk."

Catherine chuckled. "Thanks, Bertha."

"Now," Bertha said, motioning for a chair. "If you wouldn't mind getting old Bertha something to sit down on, because let me tell you, these showgirl gams ain't what they used to be."

Catherine chuckled.

"And while you're at it, grab me a cookie or two. I am _so_ done worryin' about keepin' off the weight. One of the perks of getting old," she said with a wink.

Catherine laughed again and reached for a soft-looking chair nearby, as well as a few cookies. Mabel, Lily and Lindsey, situated and already immersed in each other's company on the couch, hardly seemed to notice.

Catherine grabbed a chair for herself and moved it over across the room towards Bertha, and far enough away from the other three to keep the conversation private.

"So, who do you need the info on, hon?"

"Gary Schwartzgreiner."

Bertha furrowed her wrinkled brows in thought. "Hmmm. Ah yes," she said, a light bulb clearly going off in her head. "Gary! Yes. _Doctor_ Schwartzgreiner. He worked for you people, I thought?"

"Well, kind of. He was a coroner. But before I was at the lab."

Bertha chuckled. "Of course, of course. Because you're young. Before your day, it was. Funny how time flies."

Catherine laughed along with her, glad to find someone to talk to that made her feel young in comparison.

"Yes. He was a coroner... Married to Mary Dorman, as I recall. I think they got divorced back in... '85?"

"You think? You're losin' your game there, Bertha."

Bertha chuckled. "Oh, for the old age. You know how that Alzheimer's gets."

Catherine rolled her eyes, hiding a laugh. She knew that Bertha had no such thing. "Nice try."

"Eh. You never know. But... yes, it was around '85, I do believe."

"It's fine. I'm more curious about his reputation as a coroner, or as a man, or if he had, you know... connections."

"Ah," Bertha said, nodding her head in understanding. "_Connections_." There was a conspiratorial glint in the ex-showgirl's eyes.

Catherine nodded.

"I'm not sure if Sam would want me telling you this..." She looked nervously off to the side, toward the couch where Lily sat immersed in her granddaughter's stories.

"My dad's dead."

Bertha nodded somberly. "Yes, I suppose he is. But promise you won't think less of him for it."

"Bertha, I know Sam Braun -- _my dad_ -- was involved in some pretty shady business. There's not much you can tell me that'll really surprise me."

Bertha chuckled drily. "Of course. Well then. There were a few things, a few people... Well, you see... Dr. S was a doctor. I mean, you had to be one, in order to get the job as coroner. Which I'm sure you know of course."

"Uh huh."

"Anyways, occasionally, there were... incidents."

"People getting beat up, people getting punch drunk off their asses --"

"Language, Catherine," Bertha scolded. "I tell you! Young people these days!"

Catherine stifled another laugh, again grateful to fit into the category of 'young people.' "Okay. People _inebriated._"

Bertha nodded approvingly. "Yes, that. But also... occasionally, well... there were mobs in Vegas."

Catherine nodded knowingly, raising an eyebrow. _No duh._

"And, well, they had to make their hits." Catherine nodded again, patiently. "And, for placing those hits... sometimes they needed different locations."

"Like casinos?"

"Like casinos."

"So... Dr. S..."

"With the right amount of money, Dr. S could be... shall we say, persuaded... to deliver certain more likable findings, on autopsies. He definitely covered more than his share of heart-hits."

"Heart-hits?"

"Yes. That's what they called 'em here," Bertha said thoughtfully, more to herself than to Catherine. She continued, turning to face the younger woman, "You know how, with the mob, every once in a while there'd be a suicide. Especially for the greater good of whichever mob the dead bloke was associated with. The mob would go for a hit then, like a sign of forgiveness. Take Tony Sabino for example."

"No one got charged for that."

"That's because it wasn't really a murder."

"How's that?"

"Tony was gonna go down for the Samson heist, and he left a note sayin' it was all him, to cover everyone else's hides, before he pulled the trigger."

"On himself?"

"Yep. Told Longfella ahead of time, and he went and shot ol' Tony in the heart afterwards. So it wouldn't look like a suicide. Ya know how the Church is -- suicide bein' a sin. Longfella wasn't gonna let Tony go down for it, when he was really tryna' protect the clan. With the Church or with the public. Hadda keep a good image for Tony's family and all, ya know? Make sure he still got buried right an' all."

"Okay. Yeah. That makes sense. I remember hearing about it." Learning about heart-hits, Catherine couldn't help but think of Tam and the shot to the chest that looked to be post-mortem. _Maybe Tam shot himself and Ari didn't want it to look like a suicide, out of love. Then again, the angle of the shot to the head would make it impossible for him to have pulled the trigger himself. Plus, there were witnesses. Ugh. So much for a happier ending._

"But Dr. S -- he was definitely one to cover up some stuff, take back a few, if ya know what I mean."

"Ah. That makes sense. I had a feeling that was the case."

"So, what is it that brought you askin' 'bout Dr. S? He in trouble or somethin'?"

"Nah. He's in the clear. We're not gonna charge him with anything. We just needed the information."

"Tell me, now that I've given you the information, what case is it that you're looking into? Do you think the doctor killed someone?"

"No. Probably not."

"Probably not?"

"We think he covered a murder."

"Hmm. In this day, at his age, I can't really imagine him having it in him to cover a murder. Got in trouble with Sam one time, and he's been laying low ever since."

"What'd he do? I mean, that got him in trouble with Sam?"

"I heard something about him messing up on something. Not covering a hit properly. The rumor is that he came to do a favor for Sam drunk, sometime in the 80s, I think. He was supposed to be fixing something with someone who was _already_ drunk -- not getting drunk himself. Rumor has it that he also ran off at one point, with one of Sam's showgirls. And you know how protective Sam is of his girls. Or _was_, I guess."

Bertha looked up, tentatively distracted for the moment. "I'm sorry about him, by the way. I don't remember if I told you at the funeral. It was kind of all a blur that day. But your father was a good man. I know his reputation might have said otherwise, but for a man in his position, he could've done a lot worse. He could have been much worse of a man. For all the crime he was associated with, he did still keep his integrity."

"Thanks," Catherine said quietly.

Taking a glance at the couch, she could see Lindsey's fingers tapping on the sofa armrest, betraying the growing restlessness. Catherine could make out Lily's eyelids flickering, and knew her mother was probably tired by now. She just hadn't been up to much since Sam had died.

"Well, I think I'm going to get going about now. Mom's looking mighty tired, and Lindsey's gettin' antsy."

"Sure thing, dearie," Bertha replied, stretching her legs out as far as they would go. "Getting tired is what we older ladies do best these days," she said with a wink.

"Thanks for the help, Bertha."

"Any time, dear." Bertha smiled conspiratorially. "Just, next time, maybe you want to come with some gossip for _me_, dearie. We old ladies get a bit restless ourselves for some juicy news. And I _know_ you're gonna know at least some of it, being a workin' lady all about the town."

Catherine laughed back. "Sure thing. Next time." She moved over to the couch, catching Lily's eye.

"I'm assuming you and your daughter will be leaving now?" Lily asked, almost coldly.

"Yeah. I hope you don't mind, Mom. Everybody's lookin' a bit tired."

"Of course we are." She turned to Mabel and Lindsey. "Lindsey, dear, why don't you go say goodbye to Bertha now." She gave Mabel a meaningful look, which Lindsey caught as well.

"This means you gotta talk to Mom now, in private," Lindsey replied as she hoisted herself off of the couch and reached out a hand to help Mabel do the same.

Lily raised an eyebrow, watching as Mabel and Lindsey headed across the room. "Perceptive young thing."

"Yep. She's learning," Catherine replied.

"But how _much_ is she learning?"

Catherine was caught off guard by the cryptic remark. "Pardon?"

"She's not the girl you were, Catherine."

"I thought that was a good thing," Catherine said with a chuckle.

Lily laughed as well. "She just... doesn't seem as... full of life... as you were. She's aged beyond her years, and losing her father didn't help either."

They were both looking at Lindsey now, as the girl helped Bertha up as well.

"She's more... subdued." Lily paused, staring wistfully at her granddaughter, before turning to Catherine with sharp eagle eyes. "And what compelled you to allow her to dye her hair? I thought it looked mighty pretty before. Maybe things have changed a bit, but back in _my_ day, girls were _happy_ to be blonde. She looks less like a Flynn."

Catherine looked at her daughter's light brown hair and smiled. "If hair's the most experimenting she's gonna do, then I can't say I mind."

Lily nodded, conceding the point. "Just... make sure she's happy. You were fine, or at least relatively fine, growing up without a dad. But that doesn't mean it's the same for Lindsey."

Catherine nodded, holding back her disagreement. _I still fail to see what her hair color has to do with her lacking a father figure._

"Well," Lily broke the silence. "It looks like you two ought to get going now."

Catherine nodded, stepping up and hugging her mother before making her way toward the other women, and then out the door.

Lindsey looked up at her with a smile, blue eyes tired. "You got what you needed?"

Catherine nodded.

"The cookies were good," Lindsey replied, almost to the air.

* * *

Nick was going to tough it out today. Today, he was going to cook. At home.

It didn't sound so tough, but it was.

Greg had most often been the one to cook. The Californian was a mama's boy at heart. _Had been_. Nick tried to correct himself, but it fell flat. The past tense still just didn't feel quite right.

For the past month, Nick had relied almost exclusively on take-out. He had grown up with a mother to cook for him. When Jillian wasn't there, one of his sisters took over. In college, he had happily relied on school-provided grub. He wasn't exactly a picky eater. He didn't remember what he had done in the decade or so before he met Greg. There had been the occasional girlfriend -- always a good ol' Texas type girl (read: a competent cook). He also remembered a lot of frozen dinners from that point in his life.

Greg had been different. Nick couldn't put his finger on how, but he knew Greg had been different.

The way his smile reflected off of the silver pot.

The way he danced around in the kitchen while waiting for whatever he was making to finish.

The way he used playlists instead of a timer, combining songs of the right lengths to fill exactly the thirty minutes required to cook spaghetti.

He was vibrant, _alive_.

Now that Nick thought about it, Greg hadn't danced in the kitchen in a while. He hadn't done it for a while before the… _incident_.

Then again, time blurred in Nick's memory.

Looking at the kitchen reminded him too much of Greg. But Nick wasn't going to chicken out the way he had with the locker cleaning. Today, he had a mission. He _knew_ he was going to get Greg justice, and the knowledge reinvigorated him, heaving a last wind of energy he never knew he had in him. It was one final sprint to the finish line, and Nick suddenly, really, had it in him.

Reaching for a box of spaghetti -- one he knew Greg had bought -- he made his way to the larger pot and filled it up. He knew he wouldn't need as much this time. There was only one person to feed.

With the spaghetti infiltrated in boiling water, he sat back, relaxed. But something was missing. The sterile timer looked lonely. The red neon letters flashed out at him, and Nick tried to remember when they'd even switched from green letters to red. It had been Greg's choice; Nick just couldn't remember why.

Glancing to the side at the lonely, static air, he realized what the problem was -- or at least part of it.

Greg's laptop had acquired a collection of dust in the last month. Nick hated the dust. He brushed it off and opened the computer, flicking the 'On' switch.

He had to push back tears when he saw the desktop background -- a picture of the team, together. Greg had clearly zoomed in on and centered the picture around himself and Nick. Nick hadn't wanted Greg to put up a picture of just the two of them. _We don't want to give it away._ Nick remembered the familiar argument.

The computer flickered to life, and Nick shuffled through files, trying to find the music. He was relieved to stumble upon an audio/video file. _Trust Greg to waste money on downloading music videos rather than just songs themselves._

He clicked on the first folder, labeled 'It.' Ambiguous and important sounding. Then, on the most recent file.

It wasn't what he had expected. Not by a long shot.

Nick cried as the familiar face in front of him started moving. He'd missed that voice so much. The expressions. The smile. The smile itself, however, quickly disappeared.

_Greg stared at the screen desperately, pleading with some mechanical audience for understanding._

_"I've tried so hard at it," he began, clearing his throat. "I really have."_

_He paused, turning to the side to regain his composure. "I just -- I can't do this anymore. I can't. I put so much effort into it, and it's all for nothing. No notice. Nothing._"

_He stared at the screen again, his eyes meeting the center of the screen in full. "I'm gonna call it quits. For real this time."_

The video ended with a simple click.

Nick set his head back, perplexed. It didn't make any sense. He stared at the video and the now-still face marred by anger and pain.

He couldn't stare at Greg's face anymore; it reminded him too much of the night _it_ had happened. Closing the file, he found himself back in the directory labeled 'It.' Perhaps if he only started from the beginning...

He clicked on the earliest file in the folder.

_FILE: 'WOW'_

_DATE CREATED: 2/30/2004_

A younger, spiky-haired Greg stared out from the screen. This time, Nick was relieved to see that the younger man was smiling -- rather mischievously at that. He looked like the cat that ate the canary or, in Greg's case, the cat that drank the coffee.

_"You'll never guess what happened to me."_

_Greg was brimming over with excitement. _Nick recognized the way he was rocking back and forth -- the way he always did when he had information he was just about literally dying to share.

_"And you told me it would never happen." Greg let loose a smug laugh. "You have no idea who is in love with me." He paused. "Yes. I do mean in love." He paused again. "Okay. At least has the hots. Fine? Fine."_

_He smiled, collecting himself and staring at the screen, eerily meeting Nick's eyes._

_"Nick Stokes. Nick frickin' Stokes."_

_Greg punched the air -- a clear victory celebration._

Nick missed the rest of Greg's soliloquy, losing himself in a perverse amalgam of laughter and tears.

* * *

Warrick was thoroughly baffled by the display in the window. It stood contrary to all evidence. And, like all evidence, it clearly had not been intended for his eyes.

Then again, that was what Grissom got for forgetting to roll down the window shades of his office.

All prior evidence had clearly indicated that Grissom and Sara were inclined toward secrecy and stealth, especially when it came to their romantic relationship.

And he certainly never would have guessed that they kissed like _that_.

Somehow, he'd always imagined them mating like butterflies, or something equally strange and/or entomological. Such was the seed Catherine had planted in his mind, at least.

What really surprised him, though, was the intimacy in their embrace. He knew he shouldn't be watching, but he couldn't tear his eyes from the pair.

It wasn't the hotness of it -- that would be beyond squicky, not to mention that he could find far better choices in pornos.

It was the sweetness. It was the _love_.

For the life of him, he couldn't remember having ever seen such a display of genuine affection before, and certainly not one playing out before his eyes, which were separated from said display only by the walls of Grissom's office.

How was it, Warrick wondered, that Grissom had managed to find such a connection?

The scene inside Grissom's office betrayed a level of romance, but also one of trust; yet Grissom and Sara were two of the least trusting people Warrick had ever met.

It wasn't that he disliked Grissom, but he had to face it: the man he saw as a father figure was _cold_ and certainly the last close friend he would have expected to pull off any form of affection, let alone a thoroughly intimate, romantic and cavity-inducing-sugary-sweet PDA.

_Why didn't I ever find that? _Warrick wondered.

He knew that there had been something off in his relationship with Tina, but he had thought that they were, at least, in love. But the soft exchange of words and lips; the gentle bending and curving of bodies, in sync, almost like two insects, perfectly fitted to each other by nature's design -- that was never something he had experienced with Tina. A marriage license couldn't do _that_.

His thoughts turned next to Amy, and he almost laughed at the comparison. There was _nothing_. It was sex and small talk -- almost peaceful co-existence dependent, more than anything, on the fact that he was rarely even at his now-shared apartment; it was no intimacy or trusting exchange of sweet, genuine words.

Somehow, Warrick Brown -- 6 ft 3, brilliant turquoise eyes, lips that were kissable to the utmost degree, young, fit and muscular, suave and socially skilled (all descriptors applied, of course, by friends) -- had, in his 39 years, found nothing to rival the love between the two socially awkward, private, nerdy work-a-holics making out with unrivaled ferocity through the window.

He sighed and reached for his phone. Per usual, it went straight to voicemail.

"Hey, Amy. I'm not sure if you even care anymore, but I don't think we should see each other anymore. Bye. Oh, and this is Warrick, by the way. I wasn't sure if you were seeing anyone else on the side, so yeah..." He had honestly meant the last statement to make sure that she didn't think some other guy was breaking up with her, not to bash or question her trustworthiness. But it didn't matter now.

He turned off the phone and made to knock on the door to Grissom's office, when a storm of light red hair got there first.

"Yo, lovebugs! You're givin' the whole office a show, so either fix the window shades or tone the geek lovin' down!"

The expressions on his coworkers' faces were priceless.

* * *

TBC


	16. Cómo Sabía Greg

_Salvar: to save, to overcome, to preserve, to rescue, to cover, to pass_

_Salvarse: to survive, to escape_

* * *

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Thanks to LaughableBlackStorm for betaing! The title translates (ideally) to 'How Greg Knew.' Warning for brief offensive language.

* * *

CHAPTER 16: CÓMO SABÍA GREG

_2004_

_"Aw, Sanders. You even got your hair all fixed up to go dumpster diving. There must be someone you _really_ want to impress, huh?"_

_Greg glared at the rotting Italian leftovers in front of them; he was too aware that glaring at Detective Romero himself would not solve the problem, and would only give the cop what he wanted: satisfaction at the knowledge that he was, in fact, getting to Greg. And besides, the wasted Eggplant Parmesan was equally deserving of a scowl. Who would want to waste such a delicacy? That _had_ to be a crime, especially from the standpoint of the cooking-aficionado CSI-in-training._

_"Sanders. You hear what I said?"_

_Greg looked up from the evidence to shoot Detective Romero what he hoped was an intimidating glare. _

_Apparently, it wasn't so intimidating, as he discovered when Romero just laughed. _

_"Aw, you trying to impress me? Or just glare me down? I promise ya -- either way, it's not working."_

_Greg huffed, not looking up as he approached the dumpster. "I'm trying to impress _upon_ you the importance of leaving me alone to process the scene."_

_"Impress _upon_?! _Upon?! _You tryna proposition me? What the hell's that about, Nancy?!"_

_Greg ignored the comment. He had long ago stopped listening when people called him names, especially names like that. _

_Romero scowled and angrily approached Greg, whose back was turned as the CSI eyed the dumpster._

_Greg felt a figure approaching. _

_"Huh? You gonna answer my question, candy-ass?!"_

_Greg could hear Romero's breath growing louder in intensity and proximity. _

_"No. It doesn't dignify an answer."_

_Romero's breath was heated and sporadic, and Greg could feel the detective's anger, beating down like an angry bull on the back of his neck. Greg leaned over the dumpster, carefully inspecting its contents and trying to ignore the angry words of the temperamental homophobe behind him._

_Greg spoke calmly. "If you want me to finish processing the scene, then I suggest you back up. ¿Comprendes?"_

_When a punch to his upper back almost sent Greg reeling into the dumpster, he knew he had his answer. _

_"You makin' fun o' me, Sanders? Tryna speak my language?"_

_"Last I checked," Greg replied through bared teeth as he tried, once again, to keep his calm, "the language doesn't belong to you. And, more importantly, the more time you spend bugging me, the longer I'm gonna take at this scene. Also, pushing me into the dumpster doesn't help me get the scene done any faster. On the contrary, it's actually a pretty darn good way to fuck up the evidence. Got it?" He didn't wait for an answer. "Good."_

_Romero glared, angry to have been told off by the impudent wimp of a nerd-squad-wannabe. "Then _you_ better stop talkin' ta me that way, fag --"_

_"Hey now!" A familiar southern drawl emerged from the entrance of the alleyway. "Back off, Romero! And don't go talkin' to him that way!"_

_"Standin' up for 'im, Stokes? Almost makes me think you're a fag too."_

_"I'm not," Nick replied angrily. "But you still need to leave him alone. So shut up and let him work."_

_Greg angrily returned to the dumpster, glaring at the rotten lasagna, in lieu of Nick and Romero. _

**

* * *

**

_Nick stared into the familiar lab and shook his head._

_"What's up?"_

_Warrick's question caught him off guard._

_"Sanders," Nick replied with frustration. "He never learns."_

_"Whaddya mean?"_

_"He goes off to a scene -- a dumpster dive of all places -- dressed like a queen. Seriously -- hair gel and one o' them fancy shirts." Nick shook his head again. "Like it's any surprise that he gets harassed by a cop at the scene."_

_"No matter what he wears, nobody should be hasslin' 'im for it."_

_Nick guffawed. "He shouldn't do it. It's stupid. He's lucky I got there in time to give Romero a piece of _my_ mind. _That_ shut him up."_

_Warrick shook his head and pursed his lips, catching Nick's glance and raising an eyebrow -- enough so that Nick could see the question written in his friend's gaze._

_"What?"_

_"You need to let Greggo fight his own battles. You can't go all big-bro on him, ya know?"_

_"Big bro -- ew." Nick shook his head at the idea. For some reason, the idea of him as Greg's brother just felt squicky. "He _needs_ protection -- that and better judgment."_

_"No, Nick. Common sense would probably be useful, or at least a little more of it. But getting teased is probably what it'll take to teach him a lesson. Leave 'im be. He _does_ need to learn to dress more professionally if he wants to be a CSI."_

_Nick rolled his eyes. "It's only been a year since he was helpin' us figure out that bus scene. And he's barely past panicking and runnin' out on me scared stiff, like then. I was supervising that dumpster dive. I shoulda' been there takin' care of it."_

_"He's barely had a chance to work any scenes. Cut him some slack. Once he's actually officially training for CSI, then you can do a bit more. For now, let him be. Let him be himself."_

_The door to the break room opened, revealing a spiky head with streaks that looked to have been applied blindly. "Results!"_

_Warrick patted Nick on the shoulder. "Good luck, bro."_

_Nick nodded._

**

* * *

**

_"And the substance on the handcuffs comes back... mold."_

_"Mold?" Nick scrunched up his face in disgust. "Ew."_

_Greg just laughed. "I guess they were too poor for the Erotica Boutique?"_

_Nick cringed, and looked at Greg in horror. "Pardon?"_

_The smile was still plastered on Greg's face. "Gives a whole new meaning to 'fuzzy handcuffs,' doesn't it?"_

_"Greg, this is murder, not porn... or whatever sick stuff _you're _up to these days."_

_"Oh, come off it. It's _clearly _kink-related. I mean, let's list the evidence together now," Greg said, imitating a television host. He stuck out a long, slim hand with grace, preparing to count down evidence on his fingers. "Handcuffs -- inadvertently _fuzzy_ handcuffs." An index finger went down._

_"Rope --" Nick barely got out the word._

_"You mean a _soft_, _scarlet_ strand." A long, tapering middle finger as Greg punctuated each adjective with a smooth, lingering voice, almost one of invitation --_

_"Cut the crap, Greggo."_

_Greg looked taken aback. "Crap? Now _that's _kinky. I wouldn't be surprised with the Dominion --"_

_"Greg. Stop. Talk. Ing."_

_Greg looked up, barely hiding a lopsided smile under a scowl._

_"Seriously. You're fucked up man."_

_Greg raised two eyebrows, as he retreated his fingers. The expression on his face -- he was clearly at least a bit insulted -- lingered for a second before disappearing under one of apathy and slight bemusement. "How so? I'm clearly not the only --"_

_"Shut up!"_

_Now Greg really did look startled. _

_"Shut it with the sex talk. And the kink. And the flamboyant, out there, 'look-at-me-I'm-so-freakin'-WEIRD' act. You get it?!" Nick paused enough to catch his breath. "And you seriously _wonder_ why you get crap from Romero?! You can't even escape the freakin' lab without bein' a freak and gettin' called on it. Once you're out in the field, it's a whole different ball game. You're always bein' out-there. You're always grinnin' and smilin' and _flirtin'_ with every other person crossin' your path! You can't do that. You can't _act _like that!"_

_Greg seemed to have regained composure, as the shock wore off over the course of Nick's angry ramble. _

_"Act? I can't _act_ like that? Who said it was an act? I'm comfortable _being_ myself, no matter how flamboyant, or gregarious myself is. I'm me. That's the only person I'm gonna act like."_

_"Well, actin' that way's what got you in trouble with Romero at the scene! It's what's gonna get you in trouble everywhere, for the rest of your life --"_

_"Nick," Greg began slowly. "I've been acting like myself for my _entire_ life. That's 28 years. I _know_ how some people react to it. And I know what happens. I've been stuffed into enough lockers and called enough names. But that's not gonna change me. I don't let other people scare me into pretending to be someone else."_

_"But Romero --"_

_"_I _could have _handled_ Romero."_

_Greg stood up, standing tall and taking advantage of the extra inch on Nick. It was surprising what a formidable presence he could be, when he wanted to. _

_"Don't kid yourself, Nick. I didn't need you to come rescue me from big-bad-cop-man. Maybe I look like a wimpy science geek, but I can take care of myself. Half the reason people seem to think I'm weak is that they don't even give me a _chance_ to stand up for myself."_

_By now Nick could feel the anger in Greg's voice, and the heated, frustrated breathes slowly escaping the aggravated lab technician. _

_"If you'd have backed off, you would have seen me take care of it, rather than giving yourself a pat on the back for coming to poor little Greggo's rescue. You get me?"_

_Nick nodded, speechless. _

_"Evidence?"_

_

* * *

_

_2004_

_Nick stared out guiltily at the lab tech. He could see that Greg was riled. But, for once, he was left to wonder if it was some job-related circumstance, or even a personal-life-related one. Then again, what personal life was possible for an LVPD employee working overtime and grave shift? Or perhaps it was because of _him_, because of _Nick_. _

_Nick sighed sadly, not fully expecting how much the preceding conversation would affect either man._

_He had just wanted to protect the other man. And he still couldn't help rescinding his feelings of relief at his own actions at the dumpster that day. After all, Greg was safe, and that's what mattered. _

_A voice distracted him. _

_"He's been like this since the explosion."_

_He turned around, surprised. The thoughtful, reflective comment was rather surprising coming from Catherine. He could see the guilt in her eyes as if it were scribbled with over-exuberance by a Lindsey of younger years. _

_Nick shrugged. Catherine seemed inclined toward taking the blame for Greg's less than ecstatic disposition of the moment, but Nick knew there was far more to it. Nonetheless, he didn't feel like explaining it to Catherine, even though the truth would relieve her of some of the guilt baring down on her. _

_"He'll get over it." _

_He turned around again, this time to face Sara._

_He stared at her, slightly confused. _

_"I _know_ there's more to it. You don't have to tell me," she responded to his raised eyebrows. _

_Nick drew back in guilt. _

_"Don't worry about it. I was testing out my interrogation skills." _

_Nick knew the excuse was far from the truth, but her intentions were clearly good. _

_"I take it you're not gonna tell me what the real problem is?"_

_"What makes you think I know?"_

_"It has to do with you."_

_"How do you know that?"_

_"I just do."_

_Nick stared back, shaking his head in befuddlement at Sara's surprisingly cryptic remarks. He rarely saw her that involved in her coworkers' lives. _

_"You just gonna keep standin' there?" she asked, eyebrow raised almost in amusement. _

_He turned around for support, only to see that Catherine had long since departed._

_"We both know you did something. And _I_ know you've been needing to do something for a while. So go do it."_

**

* * *

**

_Greg was glaring at his shoelaces. That was the best description Nick could come up with. The shoelaces had clearly committed some inexcusable, reprehensible crime -- either that or Sara was not the only one supposedly practicing interrogation skills on relatively undeserving objects. _

_"Is it the color?"_

_Greg looked up, startled. "Huh?"_

_"You hatin' on that shoelace because it's the wrong color or somethin'?"_

_Greg took it as the peace offering it was meant as. He had always been the forgiving sort. _

_"I don't think my brain can comprehend the frequencies emitted from light waves striking the shoe laces, hence thoroughly kerfuffling my brain and its own processing of the objects in front of it."_

_"Tired out and brain-dead from a long shift, eh? And using big words to cover it up."_

_Greg chuckled dryly and nodded. "I always wanted to use 'kerfuffle' in a sentence."_

_"Can't say I've ever had that particular and unquenchable urge." Nick paused. "But I understand what ya mean. How you're feelin,' that is."_

_Greg nodded slowly, as if he needed a little extra time to absorb each word seeping in. Every sponge of a brain filled up eventually, Nick supposed. This brilliant one was, apparently, all soaked out for the day. _

_"You got plans after shift?"_

_Greg looked up into Nick's eyes briefly before averting eye contact, settling once again on the offending shoe laces. Finally, he shook his head. "Why?"_

_"I think you an' I can both agree that we need to talk?"_

_Greg bit his lip and nodded. "Sure. Where to?"_

_Nick wasn't sure why he needed to go someplace different for this particular conversation; he wasn't sure why he felt _this_ one should be held in a place that LVPD personnel rarely visited; whose events would find no path to the office water cooler. _

_He dismissed the thought. "Bar up the strip. Charlie's__."_

_Greg nodded again, blinking slowly in thought. "I think I know which one you're talking about. You driving?"_

_"I have every intention of getting wasted tonight, and I think that should be your goal too. It's been a tough day."_

_Greg chuckled in agreement. "Since _you're_ inviting _me_, I think _you_ can get billed for the cab?" His eyes were hopeful. _

_Nick felt like he had spent years trying to build up a fortress of protection for the not-so-frequent, but nonetheless lethal raids from Greg's infamous puppy dog eyes. This time, though, it was a short battle, especially after the long, hard day. _

_"Sure. I'll pay."_

_"Score!" Greg softly rejoiced in celebration, pumping his fists for added effect. _

_Nick couldn't help but laugh, especially when Greg got up, only to trip over the still-untied and undealt-with shoe laces. Nick barely caught the eager lab rat -- reaching out a single hand to catch Greg's back -- before said lab rat plummeted to the ground. Judging by the angle, Nick could surmise that Greg would have only been centimeters away from the edge of the bench. _

_"Nice catch," Greg said, looking up. "You can let go of me now."_

_It felt like a classic chick flick movie moment, and Nick quickly concealed a blush and moved away. _

_Greg, who seemed surprised by the quick loss of contact, tottered briefly before catching his footing again. _

_With two feet finally planted firmly on the ground (and for once, neither was in his mouth), Greg grinned a wide, zany smile before announcing that he just had to shower and grab his things. _

_Nick nodded, heading out the door._

_

* * *

_

_"So..." Greg looked up from his second Margarita as he continued to twirl the straw of his now-empty drink._

_Nick stared down anxiously at his own full shot of tequila, but Greg reached out a hand, snatching the glass away and successfully averting the Texan's gaze._

_"Earth to Nick?"_

_Nick glanced around warily. A familiar show of black hair -- just like Vega's -- caught his eye and he hid his head behind the booth walls anxiously._

_"Nick?"_

_"Uh."_

_"What's going on?"_

_"I think I saw Vega."_

_"Okay...?" Greg raised an eyebrow, clearly waiting for an explanation of why Vega's presence was important. _

_Nick remained silent, so Greg posited another guess._

_"You wanna go talk to him? Invite him to sit with us?"_

_Nick shook his head, but offered no alternative. _

_"You wanna kick me out and take him out for drinks instead?"_

_Nick shot him an angry glare. "This isn't a date, Greg!"_

_Greg chuckled, shaking his head. "I was _joking_."_

_"Whatever."_

_"You know, it's kinda hard to start talking about whatever it is that we need to talk about if you don't start talking. Ya know?"_

_"You sound like a woman."_

_"Um... I'm not sure how to respond to that one." Greg paused, knitting his brows. "Although I think all of my exes would be willing to back my gender up."_

_"Who _are_ your exes?"_

_"Pardon?"_

_"I _said,_ who are your exes?"_

_"Why?"_

_"Girl or guy?"_

_Greg's expression became stoic. "What's it to you?"_

_Nick shrugged._

_The antagonism in Greg's voice was unmistakable. "What? You gonna get Vega to come help you kick my ass if I give the wrong answer or something?"_

_"What? No! No! Of course not... I mean... I just wanna protect you."_

_"Protect me?" Greg was slightly dumbfounded. "Protect me from _what_?"_

_"You know..."_

_"Um, no, I don't know."_

_"People like Vega kicking your ass."_

_"Vega is a perfectly nice guy."_

_"Fine then. Romero."_

_"And _why_ would I need protection against Romero?"_

_Nick shrugged his shoulders again. _

_Greg rolled his eyes and made to leave the booth. "I give up. I just don't get you, Stokes."_

_Nick didn't know why it hit him so hard when Greg called him by his last name, but he wasn't going to let the younger man leave like that._

_"Greg, wait. That's not what I meant... err... What I meant is... I wanna protect you."_

_"Yeah. I got that. And it still doesn't make any sense. Are you one of those drug lords that collects 'protection' money from business owners in the area? Or do you just need someone to save, because of some big Superman complex?"_

_Nick paused, digesting Greg's words. "I wanted to protect Kristy."_

_"Kristy Hopkins?"_

_"Yeah."_

_Greg sat back down; his curiosity willed him to hear out Nick's explanation, which was sounding more and more intriguing by the word._

_"I wanted to protect her." Nick paused. "But she wouldn't let me."_

_Greg nodded, trying to be understanding, but also trying to get the story out. _

_"I wanted to protect her from all of the drug guys and the pimps, and the guys using her."_

_Greg wanted to simply yell out, 'Don't worry! I'm not a prostitute!' but his curiosity, again, willed him to sit still and quiet. He nodded again. _

_"I wanted to protect her from the world," Nick admitted forlornly, as his sixth whiskey sour appeared on the table. He finished it in one long gulp, following it up with a belch. _

Oh, for the sentimentality of this moment_, Greg thought wryly. _

_Nick continued__, "I wanted to protect her from everything. I don't care what people said about her... she was so sweet. She _was_ innocent. I wanted to protect her."_

_Greg nodded, as euphemisms became clear. _

_"She was so beautiful, and kind, and smart -- like you, Greggo."_

_Greg almost choked at the last words. _Beautiful?

_Nick seemed to catch on to that one as well. "I mean... not beautiful, but... well, you're cute, not beautiful, 'cause you're a guy." He nodded his head in confidence at his own eloquence. _

_"Um.. thank you, Nicky."_

_"I wanna protect you, Greggo." Nick looked Greg in the eyes this time, and the meaning behind the euphemism became clear. "I wanna protect you the way I couldn't protect Kristy. The way I couldn't make myself… care enough… for Kristy." _

I want to love you the way I couldn't love Kristy.

_"Will you let me?"_

_"I'll let you try."_

* * *

_At first, it had been awkward. Nick had envisioned himself taking the lead -- that was his job; he was the 'man,' even if Greg was, technically, one too. But Nick was the protector. Nick couldn't explain why, but he had to -- he needed the control in the relationship. He _needed_ to be the one pushing it forward and showing Greg which way to go. That was just how it worked -- how it was supposed to work. _

_The night ended anticlimactically, as Greg stared at Nick curiously, waiting for whichever move was the appropriate follow-up to the somewhat-sweet, somewhat-awkward somewhat-declaration of love -- or whatever it was -- that had just taken place._

_It was not the most romantic evening, but Nick had never pictured romance playing a huge role in a relationship between himself and another man. He wanted Greg, but he didn't. He wanted to protect Greg, and, as he forced himself to admit, after far too many delicious dreams, he wanted to fuck Greg, but he didn't picture any romance in the action. But he wanted to protect Greg from the world, like a damsel in distress protected from the evils of the world. And Nick knew there had to be something inherently romantic about that. All in all, Nick Stokes was entirely baffled as to how to proceed. _

_Neutral sensation on his hand interrupted his train of thought. He wasn't sure how else to describe it. Greg's hand wasn't particularly soft -- at least not when he just touched Nick's hand lightly. It wasn't rough either, though. But it was _there_. And it felt right. _

_Nick turned his hand over, catching long, delicate, lithe fingers in his own thick, hard, ruggedly nailed digits. He turned the sleek hand in front of him over, bending the graceful lines; pushing them back and forth; pressing down and marveling at the changes in color that resulted._

_The joints stiffened, and Nick pushed back, trying to flex them again, but they didn't yield. He held the whole hand hard in his grasp and tried to grip it with enough force to make it bend to his will. A sharp pain in the palm of his own hand interrupted his efforts, and he scowled, noting the source: a carelessly cut fingernail, whose edge jutted out from one side before sloping in a sharp, unsymmetrical angle. Yet it was still so feminine._

_A nail from the same finger distracted him, and he instinctually withdrew his hand to his chest, shaking it in disgust. _

_Greg raised an eyebrow at him. "I thought you would have learned your lesson."_

_Nick scowled back, rather confused. _

It would take Nick five years -- and the loss of the hand and every other appendage attached to one Greg Sanders, from Nick's life -- to teach Nick his lesson. Greg Sanders was not one to be suffocated and controlled. He was no feminine, objectified plaything, nor was he a damsel in distress. Even if he relied on fingernails rather than brute force, he could fight back and defend himself.

But Greg would give him another chance, for that night.

_"You gonna do something other than try to squish my left hand? 'Cause I _am_ gonna need that hand tomorrow, at least if I'm processing stuff."_

_Nick nodded. "Umm..." _

_"I get it. You don't quite know what you're doing here." Greg's words were forcedly understanding, but his tone betrayed exasperation. "What time do you have work tomorrow?"_

_"Uh... I'm tryin' to be there at 5."_

_"Well then... I guess you should get home. I'll call a cab."_

_Nick nodded._

_The cab ride was silent. Greg sat on the right side and Nick on the left; the vacant space between them spoke volumes that Nick would rather not have read. Nonetheless, Greg let the words boom aloud as he stared away, out the window, in silence. _

_Greg got out first, and Nick watched wistfully as the younger man trudged up the steps to his apartment complex. Nick evaluated the surrounding neighborhood -- it was relatively safe. _

_A man crossing the street, however, caught Nick's eye. The cab driver pushed down on the ignition, indicating his readiness to drive away, but Nick put a cautioning hand on the man's shoulder. _

_"Fine," the man sighed, New York accent evident. "But it's gonna cost ya."_

_Nick handed over a five wordlessly, his hand hovering on the door, ready to jump out. A small blur of movement approached the man -- a small dog -- and the man picked it up, breathing a sigh of relief that even Nick could hear from the cab, and turned around. The door to Greg's apartment complex closed, and Nick sighed with relief of his own. _

_"He's not a kid, ya know? He probably doesn't need you watching him get to the apartment."_

_Nick sighed and rolled his eyes. "He's had a rough year, alright?"_

_"Okay then," the cabbie replied, turning back to the driving wheel. "Can I go now?"_

_"Yeah."_

_Silence held the rest of the drive, but as Nick stared back at his own apartment, he felt a wave of emptiness and restlessness greet him. It didn't feel right. He was _supposed_ to be somewhere else. Home felt too solitary and simple tonight. _

_Pulling a ten out of his wallet -- the last bill he had there -- he forked it over._

_The driver sighed loudly. "Back to his place, I take it?"_

_"No. Vivelo."_

_The man nodded. Vivelo wasn't exactly a gay club -- it went both ways, or, rather, every which way. Nobody had to know what Nick would be doing there. _

_After the dinner with Greg, Nick was in a funk, and he didn't want to stay that way. _

* * *

_The atmosphere at Vivelo was more toned down than usual. Then again, Nick wasn't exactly picking a hopping night. _Really_, who in their right minds went clubbing on a Monday?_

_Nick shook his head. Normally when he entered the club, all worries would fade away. That, after all, was what mind-numbing clubbing was for: numbing the mind and forgetting everything. Still, a smile hid at the back of his mind -- the smile he aimed to protect. It wasn't the delicate, limber fingers that prompted the night's earlier conversation. It wasn't the taunting from Romero, or the worries about Vega. It wasn't the way Greg glared at his shoelaces, at least not entirely. It wasn't the way Greg raised the stem of his martini glass, or the way his tongue danced around the olive at the bottom of the glass. _

_It was the way Greg scowled. Scratch that. It was that Nick didn't want to see that scowl. The scowl was what provoked the meeting, because the scowl didn't belong there and Nick needed to get it gone. He had _needed_ to bring back the familiar smile. _

_Mind-numbing clubbing, alcohol and sex did little to cleanse his mind of that face, and he left the club -- after another faceless fuck -- with the same familiar smile stuck in his head. Normally, Nick had the moves to get what he needed -- err, wanted. A different set was required in this case, but he would get it in the end. He _would_ get that smile again. He _would_._

* * *

Greg alternated between reading a new edition of some forensics journal and glancing up at Nick, clearly waiting -- scratch that, maybe_ waiting. Nick knew that, logically, Greg would be waiting for an apology. He knew he had messed up the last night. He just didn't know exactly what he did wrong, or where exactly _protecting_ started. If that was even what he'd asked to do. _

_"I... uh--"_

_"You're not normally speechless."_

_He looked up, surprised to find the humor in Greg's voice was matched by mirth on his face._

_"I thought about it. And I thought I'd be kind of annoyed."_

_Nick nodded, still unsure. _

_"You ever read comic books as a kid?"_

_Nick was taken aback, thoroughly lost on the relevance of comic books to the men's present conundrum. _

_"Um.. sure. I read Superman."_

_Greg chuckled. "Of course you did."_

_Nick looked up again, frustrated with the presumptive tone, and with generally being excluded from Greg's seemingly haphazard train of thought. _

_Greg interrupted before Nick could get out a full syllable._

_"Superman. Stoic. Strong. Seems like the one you'd emulate."_

_"Uhh…"_

_"Your middle name is Parker."_

_Nick raised an eyebrow. He was still lost on where Greg was going with this. He sincerely hoped that last night hadn't been bad enough to send Greg on a drug rampage. _Hmmm...

_"Greggo, you usin' somethin'?"_

_Greg tilted his head and stared at Nick thoughtfully for a minute before replying simply, "No," and continuing on in his train of thought, its destination and entire path still entirely unknown to Nick. "Clark Kent never hid his face. You know that, Nick?"_

_Nick thought for a moment, before recalling the image of Superman, who definitely had no mask. "Uh, yeah. Yes, I knew that."_

_"But do you _know_ that?"_

_"Yes. Yes I do."_

_"Ya know what Spiderman's last name is?"_

_"Um..."_

_"Did you ever watch Spiderman?"_

_"No."_

_Greg shook his head and rolled his eyes, as if this indicated some grave affront. "Why am I not surprised?"_

_"Does my not having watched Spiderman create some problem for ya, Greggo?"_

_"Did Superman ever nickname Lois Lane?"_

_"Can't say I know."_

_Greg nodded. "But Spiderman -- or at least Peter Parker -- could call Mary Jane 'MJ.'"_

_"I'll take your word for it." Nick could not, for the life of him, see where this was going. Still, he wasn't growing impatient just yet. A bit antsy maybe -- he still felt like there must be some angry tirade, or at least some disappointed puppy dog eyes coming. _

_"I was just hanging out in the lab."_

_"You generally are."_

_"Mandy said you're like Superman."_

_Nick chuckled. Mandy had had some sort of crush on him for a while. "That's nice of her."_

_"I think she's wrong."_

_Nick looked up again. He could see the anger coming, or so he thought._

_"You know," Greg took a deep breath. It looked like the bulk of the important message was coming up. "Mary Jane always got excited to see Spiderman -- the protection, the strength, the superhero-ness."_

Okay. Never mind.

_"It was exciting, I'm _sure_, for her to be rescued... protected by him."_

_Greg looked up at Nick meaningfully, and Nick made the connection to the word 'protected.'_

_"But, at the end of the day, she wasn't making love to the guy in red and blue spandex."_

_Nick looked up, part startled, part amused and part something-else-entirely._

_"You can't kiss a mask, Nick."_

_"Okay…" Nick turned his head awkwardly, half looking to see if someone else was in the room... perhaps someone else who could answer the question for him._

_Greg reached down for lab results. "CODIS hit matched the husband."_

_The reversal in topic struck Nick as odd._

_Greg reached for Nick's hand in a sudden, surprising show of force and speed and pulled Nick toward him to whisper in the older man's ear. _

_"I'm just as good at euphemisms and metaphors as you are, Nicky."_

_He pushed Nick out the lab door with a wink, and Nick knew he was forgiven. _

_The last thing he heard before entering the hallway was, "And not all masks are made of spandex. Maybe _your _childhood hero was wearing one too."_

* * *

_Nick stared at his watch and realized he still had three hours to burn. _

Might as well go for that smile now...

_The door to Greg's apartment was locked, though upon pressing his ear to the door, Nick could hear loud music booming out of it. _

_He shook his head and chuckled. How very like Greg. The song wasn't quite metal, but it was still... exuberant. Which was thoroughly Greg in every sense. _

_Then there was Greg angrily mouthing along to the words. It wasn't hard for Nick to see that Greg was butchering the lyrics, singing less to the words and more to the phonetic sounds. _

_Nick knocked on the door. _

_He saw footsteps moving down wooden floors -- or at least he could see that through the mailbox. _

_Then the music just got louder. _

_He knocked again. _

_The music grew louder again. Nick rolled his eyes. _

_"Open up, Sanders!"_

_Greg's voice made it over the loud music. "I'm trying to sleep!"_

_Nick rolled his eyes. "I can see your feet, dumbass," Nick yelled back._

_"Hey!"_

_"And I can hear you singing. What is this stuff?"_

_"Only the greatest singer of all time."_

_"Sure." It was harder to betray the right semi-sarcastic tone in response when yelling over the music. Nick hoped Greg would open up soon, so that he could talk like a regular person. _

_His wishes were granted when the door moved, and Nick pushed himself through. _

_"Well, someone's eager," Greg said, staring up Nick with an amused expression on his face. _

_"Yeah," Nick said. He couldn't help smiling despite himself. He glanced around Greg's apartment living room nervously. "You… you wanna?"_

_Greg nodded, and all thoughts were interrupted by a kiss. Clothes quickly followed._

_"The mask's gone," Nick whispered in Greg's ear, an hour later._

_"I'm not so sure about that," Greg whispered huskily. "But I don't smell any spandex."_

* * *

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **As you can probably see, there is a sweetness to Nick and Greg's relationship, but it's far from perfect. You can also probably tell who's more invested in the relationship, and who might be a bit of a control freak. I like to think that this chapter deals with both characters' problems in their relationship, and shows how those issues have been there from the start. Greggo's inclined toward being, as Nick put it, "out there" and he does, on occasion, tend to tone up the flirtation and flamboyance a bit too much. Nick, on the other hand, is very private and not quite as trusting (see how he acts toward Vega and Romero in this chapter), at least about his personal life. He has a bit of a superhero complex and feels compelled to protect Greg and other people that he cares about, even when they don't necessarily need protecting. Basically, Freud would have plenty of fun with both, and they are both VERY different people. And when you combine two people as different as Nick and Greg, especially in a relationship that becomes long-term, you get quite a bit of friction. Just know that this is only the beginning of their relationship.


	17. Duy poj & naHlet

**Author's Note:** To all of the Spanish-speakers who are now looking at the title of this chapter and scratching their heads, all I can say is that it's the lab rats' fault. I had trouble translating the title, but it means, roughly (or at least was intended to mean), 'Agents of Analysis and Nuts,' which was the closest I could get to 'Lab Techs and Nerds.' My original goal was 'Intervention of the Lab Rats,' but that did not prove possible. Props to anyone who can figure out what language the title is in. Thanks to Appreciates_Fine_Labrats, HappyInHell, Marifw, Meg, Triden, aibo, Atticus, lil'spencefan and longas91 for reviewing the last chapter and major thanks to LaughableBlackStorm for beta! ¡Muchas gracias a longas91 para la corrección en la títula del capítulo último! This chapter is more of a 'fun' chapter, at least in comparison to earlier ones. Enjoy ;)

* * *

**CHAPTER 17: Duy poj & naHlet**

Wendy was leaning over the evidence, as before, while one hand rested on the printer attached to CODIS, clearly waiting for results.

"Quite the double-tasker there."

She looked up, not quite startled, at Warrick. "Hey, Rick. How's it going?"

"Same as ever. Hard. Stressful. Overworked. But still lovin' my job."

"Hah. Glad to hear it. So, what can I do for you? Got anything new on our case?"

"Nah. I'm guessing you still have most of the evidence?"

"That sounds about right."

"Actually, I was wondering if you could do me a favor. Or, rather, me and Catherine." He felt a little guilty -- _just a little_ -- asking the CSI-in-training, knowing how eager she was to prove herself.

She looked up warily. There was no doubt that she already had enough work on her hands as it was, between balancing her proficiencies _and_ her work in the DNA lab.

"I promise it won't take long."

That seemed to be the necessary trait of the new task. "Okay. What is it?"

"Cath and I are working on this project. We can't tell you too much about it... because you're not officially on the team yet." He hated lying, but it seemed necessary.

Fortunately, she bought it. "Okay..."

"And, in order to test your interrogation skills," he added. _She'll go for the challenge_.

"Just tell me what it is, Warrick."

"We need Archie and SuperDave to do something for us -- to analyze some old photographs of a DB. We were hoping you could talk to them, and win them over. It's not technically a case, so it may take some time on their parts, but we really need it done."

Wendy nodded.

"You're pretty close to both of them, being a lab tech. You think you can convince them?"

"I'll give it a try."

"Thanks, Wendy. You're definitely earning brownie points for this one."

Her face lit up. "No problem."

* * *

Archie was sitting in his lab, apparently eavesdropping on an argument between Mandy and Hodges. The A/V tech barely looked up from the screen to acknowledge Wendy's presence, but nonetheless pulled out a chair before handing her a bar of astronaut ice cream. It was the A/V equivalent of popcorn at the movies; it was easier to hide, and didn't make crumbs that Grissom, or worse yet, Ecklie, could later notice. And, of course, there was the sentimentality tied in to anything involving outer space for a lab full of at least three die-hard Trekkies.

"Hey, Archie."

He looked up briefly. "You don't want to watch the soap opera. I mean, Hodges is enough of a girl that I'd say this counts as a cat fight, just about."

She smirked. They both recognized the entertainment value of the amusing on-screen banter.

"What did Hodges do now?"

"More like what did Hodges_ not_ do. He just went into Mandy's lab and started talking. Which, with him being Hodges and all -- and perpetually having his foot stuck in his mouth -- is enough to piss Mandy off. Especially at this time of the month."

Wendy turned around to stare at him.

"She grabbed one of those stick things from a bag!" he replied defensively to the accusatory eyes of the CSI-in-training.

Wendy could tell her interrogation skills were improving, and she smiled.

Archie glared, but didn't drop eye contact. "I didn't do anything wrong, and if you keep smirking at me like that I'm gonna kick you out of my lab. Then you won't have any entertainment... or astronaut ice cream. If you _really_ piss me off, then you won't even be allowed to come in here to watch Star Trek."

He seemed to know the weight of that threat, though Wendy knew Archie would never really get that angry with her -- the A/V tech seemed incapable of getting genuinely angry at anybody -- so it was still an empty threat.

"What's that supposed to mean? Am I suddenly excluded from the lab tech hang-out place?"

He rolled his eyes, though there was less sarcasm and more -- _was that sadness?_

He quickly covered any hint of upset and smiled. "You never have time to come here anymore, to hang out with us lowly lab rats."

She scoffed. "Lowly? You guys still get paid more."

"Technically, you're still on our pay scale since you're still working in the lab."

"True. But once I pass my proficiencies, it's goodbye to take-out and flat-screen TV."

"Wow. I can't imagine life that way."

Wendy laughed.

"I was being serious."

She turned around to look into Archie's eyes. Then she looked around the room and remembered that she was talking to the _audio/video_ technician. Of course he couldn't live without his flat-screen.

"Well I guess that's what you get for being a geek," she replied, though it came out more condescendingly than she'd intended. "Sucks for you."

"Hey, now. Let's not be calling names."

"Seriously. How long do you think you could survive without technology?"

"I don't know, and I have no intention of ever finding out."

She chuckled again.

"And don't be hating on geekiness. I'm no geekier than you." He paused. "And _definitely _don't be hating on technology."

Wendy ignored the comment and Archie's subsequent glare. She continued to stare at the screen, where Mandy appeared close to throwing a barrel of printing ink at Hodges.

"Who knew she could even throw that far?" Archie asked, laughing dryly. She glanced back at him briefly.

He zoomed out of the screen, with scowl-conveyed complaint from Wendy, and turned around.

"So, what really brings you here? You never hang out with us lab techs anymore, anyways."

Wendy chuckled. "Actually, I was wondering if you could do me a favor."

Archie chuckled right before a light went off in the Trace lab, where the argument was taking place.

Wendy started curiously as the screen changed, growing less clear, but amplifying the volume.

"How?" Her attention was instantly diverted by the maneuver.

"Not so observant, for the trained soon-to-be CSI."

"Oh, come on. I wasn't trained in learning every button or switch in your dorky little lab."

"Dorky? That's your second insult waged against me and my lab, and it's gonna cost you."

She backtracked. "Fine. I meant that as a compliment."

Archie raised an eyebrow. "So you came here for?"

"A favor."

Archie nodded. "Fine. I'll do it. One condition."

Wendy tried to glare him down. His expression wavered briefly, but the evil glint in his eyes remained.

"You just insulted my work -- _my life_," he added dramatically, "calling it '_geeky_.' If you want me to do whatever favor it is, then you have to admit that DNA is a _lot_ geekier than A/V teching."

Wendy snorted again.

"Hey, it's _true_. At least my tech lab has cool implications."

Wendy was staring at him quizzically again.

"Come _on._ Which one of our jobs lets us watch Star Trek on a regular basis?"

Wendy laughed. "Archie, contrary to what you seem to think, being a _Trekkie_ and being a _geek_ are _not_ mutually exclusive," Wendy said, trying to control her laughter. "Actually, on the contrary --"

"You have to admit, you're just as much of a Trekkie as I am."

Wendy chuckled.

"Okay, maybe _slightly _less of a Trekkie than I am."

Wendy raised an eyebrow.

"What? Hodges told me you still knew what _chemical compound_ caused Spock's blood to turn green."

Wendy passed over the questions in her mind as to why Hodges and Archie were even discussing this...

"It was a _single element_, _not_ a chemical compound," she said reproachfully, knowing full well that she was still a geek. "Okay, okay. I'll admit that I'm a Trekkie."

"Good. _Anyways,_ A/V equipment allows a good deal of eavesdropping -- which you should be grateful for --"

Wendy nodded begrudgingly, remembering back to the many wonderful slow nights in the lab spent taking advantage of the multiple screens in the A/V lab to simultaneously spy on co-workers and watch Star Trek re-runs.

"-- and which is not necessarily a geeky activity."

"Nor is it a moral one."

"It's not like I'm doing anything with the knowledge that I gain through it --"

"Aside from blackmailing Hodges."

Archie chuckled, but countered quickly. "But I think -- and I'm sure _you_'d agree -- that keeping Hodges on his toes is good for the sanity of all Lab employees and, hence, is good for the welfare of the citizens of Clark County." He crossed his arms confidently, seemingly relaxed in the strength of his rebuttal, before proceeding.

"And you still can't talk -- I mean in terms of geekiness. In your spare tech-related time, you read articles on DNA."

Wendy didn't see his point, but still didn't like where it was going.

"You practice extracting DNA from various coworkers' hair, along with anything else you can find. And yes, I know about that cockroach."

Wendy blushed.

"And, last but not least, you flirt with Hodges."

Wendy blushed and scowled at the same time.

"I _talk_ to Hodges."

"You say tomato, I say tomahto." He spoke quickly before Wendy could interrupt him again. "Either way, it's a mighty geeky activity."

"Fine, fine."

"You just have to admit it. I sure know it. Being an A/V tech is any guy's dream, and would probably be the dream of any -- what was it? -- any 'geeky, nerdy guy trapped in a woman's body'? Hm?"

"You really are an eavesdropper!"

"And you really _do_ flirt with Hodges."

Wendy glared again. "Fine. Stalemate. But who actually says 'tomahto?'"

Archie chuckled. "Nice attempt at a diversion. Admit it."

"Okay, fine. Being an A/V tech is slightly less geeky than being a DNA tech."

"Because?"

"Because?!"

"I have to know that you believe it, being the nerd that _I _am proud to be."

"But you just -- never mind. Fine. You're -- or rather, your _job_ is less geeky because you get to spend your free time on the web, playing video games and watching TV... and eavesdropping, whereas I spend my free time..." She paused. "Practicing extracting DNA, reading articles about DNA, and..."

"You don't have to admit that you flirt with Hodges," Archie conceded.

"And _talking_ to Hodges."

"Okay. Fine. Send in the newspapers."

"Thanks, Archie," Wendy said as she headed for the door.

As she reached for it, she saw the problem.

"Wait... How'd you even know that's what they wanted you to...?"

Archie was now scanning through a different set of tapes, also surveillance of the lab. Wendy gasped when she saw her conversation with Warrick beginning again on the screen.

Archie turned to her and grinned. "I would've said yes anyways."

"Hmm. In that case... you know what Warrick also asked me to do?"

"Want me to help you convince SuperDave and/or Doc Robbins?"

"Yep."

"Hmm. I'm sure I can find a way."

Wendy chuckled as she headed out the door, eager to tell Warrick that her interrogation skills had worked.

* * *

Catherine marched through the doors of the Lab with enthusiasm, grateful for the successful interview with Bertha.

Her beeline to Warrick was interrupted by an enthusiastic DNA tech.

"Here's the report on my second proficiency so far," Wendy said, handing Catherine a thin stack of papers.

"Here's the results on your case." Another four sheets, neatly bundled in a manila folder, were stacked in Catherine's arms.

"_And_ your and Warrick's case."

Catherine looked down slightly puzzled at the notepad, scrawled in SuperDave's neat handwriting, along with an evil alien-ish smiley face and Wendy's name. It was written in the familiar chicken scratch of the A/V tech, who rarely had to handwrite anything.

"And don't worry. Warrick said it's confidential because I'm not a CSI 1 yet, so I don't know anything about the case. I just got Archie and SuperDave to help with it."

"Thanks. Good work, Wendy." _Well, she's really cruisin' for that promotion,_ Catherine thought as she headed optimistically off to work. _Looks like we're really making progress._

Looking down briefly at the results, Catherine drew out her cell phone. "Meet me in 20 at my place. I've got your results."

* * *

Wendy looked happily over the evidence in front of her. _My_ _evidence_.

Somewhere in the lab, she knew, the tire treads were being processed.

In her own lab sat the bubble gum and SAE results. Dave hadn't even mentioned to her, except for in his notes, that he had found used condoms on the ground as well. Wendy couldn't help thinking how stupid the perps must have been, to conceal evidence by using condoms but then leave the condoms next to the body. Assuming they were planning on killing the girl anyways, it made the use of "protection" rather irrelevant.

The last piece of evidence to process -- what she always ended up saving for last -- was for Trace. The dirt on the tires was probably of a normal, run-of-the-mill composition found all over Vegas. Nonetheless, there was no reason not to give her obnoxious friend in Trace extra work to do. _That, after all, is what he gets paid for._

"Simms, you got something for me?" Hodges looked up expectantly.

"Fresh crime scene, and proficiency numero dos."

"¿Habla español?" he asked.

"Sí, y con un accent better than yours."

He smirked, showing a bitter, but defeated smile. "Gracias."

"De nada."

"So... how'd the scene go?" he asked from behind the microscope.

"Alright. It was a tough case."

"Oh?"

"Child." Her voice grew grim and she knew even Hodges would understand that it was a tough case.

"Did the Power Rangers do it?"

_Okay. Maybe not. _Sometimes it was too easy to forget how little tact Hodges possessed. "Some despicable excuse of a human being, probably multiple said excuses, did it." _That should send the message loud and clear._

"So, Teletubbies?"

Wendy rolled her eyes, throwing back her head. _And we wonder why David Hodges never gets dates..._ "It was a gruesome case, okay?" She choked back a sob she hadn't even seen coming. "A little girl... eight years old... Maura Greene. She was so young... and... they hurt her... they really hurt her."

Hodges was now looking up at her with concern. "Sorry."

"You're really bad at taking hints. You know that?"

"You could have just said it. Dropped the euphemisms and said what happened. I would have dropped it. Otherwise I just keep going with my pop culture references and... you know."

She nodded, thinking he was done.

"You may find my tactlessness annoying, but it can be really useful sometimes."

She paused, reflecting on his words, which turned out to be... _surprisingly insightful_.

"You know what, Hodges... thanks for the advice. Really. It actually was very useful. And now I'm going to go take care of something, bluntly. Good luck with the evidence. I'd really like to catch this guy." She paused, adding quietly, "Power Ranger, Teletubbie or whatnot."

Hodges nodded, pursing his lips, and turned back to the microscope. "Good luck."

* * *

Nick was in the evidence room sorting through some papers, his brow etched in concentration. She saw him exchange a joke with Warrick, and the look of surprise on Warrick's face echoed Wendy's own. _Nick really is changing. He's getting better... err, minus that phone call that I came here to talk about._

She walked in slowly.

"Hey, Wendy." Nick was the first to notice her. "How's the case coming?"

"It's going fine. Actually, it's going really well."

"That's good. Especially for this kind of case. It's hard with kids. And this is probably your first one, yeah?"

"Yes, it is." Wendy was taken aback by the level of observation present in Nick's statement, a level of awareness of things around him that he had clearly been lacking in the last few weeks. _And yet again, he looks to be back. But that still doesn't explain the phone call._

"So, what's up?" Warrick asked, also seemingly recovering from the shock of Nick's new, or rather, recovered personality.

"Um... I kind of need to talk to Nick alone."

"Oh, it's cool. Warrick can hear anything about the case," Nick replied.

"Um. I actually, really do need to talk to you alone, Nick," Wendy confessed, trying to be tough.

Warrick looked puzzled for a second, but then got up and walked out the door. "Sure thing."

"What's up?" Nick asked, moving over on the couch so Wendy could sit down.

"Umm..." Now that she was alone with Nick, Wendy struggled for words. _This is harder than I thought it would be. Wait. Scratch that. This is every bit as hard as I thought it would be._

"Is something wrong?"

"Yes," she finally blurted.

"And...?"

"I heard your conversation in the alley, alright?" She got the sentence out rushed, in one breath.

"The conver... Oh. Wait. You mean..."

"On the phone."

Nick nodded, his face growing more serious.

"I... I know you're a good guy, Nick, but... if you're involved with the mafia..." She was growing more nervous by the minute, but somehow the words kept coming, contrary to all survival instincts shooting out of her brain.

Nick raised an eyebrow. "The mafia?" Now he was the one to look tongue-tied. "You think I'm in the _mafia_?"

"Are you?"

"No."

"Did that phone call have anything to do with them, or a mob, or anything like that?"

"No... not really."

"Not _really_? Or not at all?"

Nick bit his lip, clearly searching for the most political response.

"Because you know... I'm supposed to report it... if you're doing something... shady. And what you said -- or what I heard -- on the phone --"

"You know it's not polite to eavesdrop?"

Wendy was taken aback by the anger in his voice. _This sounds more like the Nick I've known the last few weeks. And the Nick that I was rather afraid of..._

Wendy just nodded in response. "B-but I still heard it... I know you're up to something, Nick."

Nick bit his lip harder. "Okay. You're right. I am up to something. But it's not... _that_ shady."

"What _is _it, Nick?" she asked forcefully.

Wendy was surprised by her own bluntness, but she wanted to get the whole conversation over with. She wanted it all to make sense, and she wanted it to all make sense _now_.

"Tell me what it is. If... if it really isn't something... that bad... then I won't tell. But... if I'm working with you, then... I don't like to be kept in the dark." Wracking her mind for ideas, she added, "Just like with that reverse psychology thing... with Catherine... you _knew_ not to keep that kinda stuff secret."

Nick nodded, prompting a sigh of relief from Wendy.

"Fine. I'll tell ya. But... please... nobody can know. I'm not havin' anythin' to do with killin' people. I'm just... tryin' to find justice... for Greg."

Wendy was speechless. All traces of sympathy immediately went out to Nick's mission, whichever means it involved. All she could think to ask was, "How?"

"Well..." Nick looked lost in thought for a second. "Actually, wait, you... you think you could help? If you don't tell Rick or Cath? Or Griss?"

"Maybe... or yes... if you tell me more."

"Okay. So...." It looked like it was hard for him to get out the whole story. "What happened in the casino that night..."

Wendy could see the sorrow in his eyes, and spared him from telling that particular story. "I know... or, I know _enough_ about what happened there. Just... what are _you_ doing _now_?"

Nick nodded slowly, starting his explanation. "The Feds closed the case. They're not investigating it... anymore." He looked Wendy in the eye. "Nobody... nobody's gonna try to find Greg's body."

Wendy held back her own tears looking at the effect of the case on Nick. "I'm so sorry."

"So..." he interrupted the potential pity. "I'm gonna find it. Right now... I'm tryin' to get the files... from the Feds. But they're not so happy to help out. The guy I was talking to on the phone was supposed to help -- and though his name is Italian, he's not in the mob."

Wendy laughed. "Okay. I believe you. I'm sure people with Italian last names do something other than steal and kill and hang out on the Jersey turnpike."

"And work for the Feds, in his case," Nick said with a chuckle. "And _you,_ my friend, watch too much of the Sopranos."

"That's probably true," Wendy said, rolling her eyes. "But hey. With workin' night shift, it goes to whatever's actually on during the day."

"Heh. I feel ya on that. I remember watching the Discovery Channel with Gre--" Nick interrupted himself from what was clearly a painful train of thought. "Anyways, I was actually wondering... if you'd be willing to help. The guy at the Feds... the one you heard me on the phone with... he got me the location of the files. He just couldn't get me the files themselves. And the thing is, the files are actually in Vegas. So it's not too much of a drive."

"So, you're planning on goin' over there and getting them yourself?"

"Yep."

"But they won't let you."

Nick grinned. "Which is where another person comes in."

"You mean an accomplice?"

"Whatever you want to call it. But... it'll help get Greggo closure. And it won't involve killin' or even stealin' anything that they value. Clearly, if they valued the case, they'd actually be workin' on it. Instead, they're ignoring it."

"I see your point."

"And, hey. You'd have an extra ally in this department if you helped."

"Aw, Nick. You're not already my friend?"

He chuckled lightly. "You'll have a lot better of a friend if you help. And, come on. Don't you want a little extra adventure?"

"Okay," Wendy replied. "I'll help."

She wasn't sure why she did it, but... it sounded fun. Exciting. Adventurous. Like every reason she'd decided to abandon a more lucrative career in DNA for working in the field. _Doing good, going on adventures and catching bad guys. _Walking out of the break room, she let loose a goofy grin. _Wendy Simms, double-07... or something to that effect._ She chuckled. _Anything to pick up this day. _

* * *

"Getting the trainee to do your dirty work for you, Brown?" Catherine asked with a smirk as she joined him in her study.

They had decided that, after requiring their coworkers' help for part of the case, it would be safest to evade future curiosity, especially from the naturally curious employees that comprised the lab's work force, and go back to working at Catherine's house.

"Hey. That's how bureaucracies work. Pass off all the busy work to the underlings and interns."

Catherine sighed. "But what part of this job doesn't feel likebusy work half the time?"

"Well, hopefully what we're doin' now won't."

She couldn't deny his logic. Fanning the papers across the table, she sat down. He followed her lead and reached for SuperDave and Archie's analyses.

"Let's see," he said, scanning the words in front of him. "You wanna go first, Ms. Willows?"

"Sure, Mr. Brown." She cleared her throat. "According to Bertha Torrence, noted Vegas gossip queen --"

Warrick choked on a laugh. "Noted?"

"Yes," she replied, satisfied. "Noted. Were there a Pulitzer in minding other people's business, good ol' Bertie woulda won it years ago."

"Glad to hear it. But she's reliable?"

"Well, you don't give Pulitzers to fabrications."

Warrick rolled his eyes. "Okay then. Proceed."

"If you say the magic word," she replied, raising an eyebrow flirtatiously.

"Popcorn. Oh, no. Palomino."

She raised her eyebrow again, this time no longer flirtatiously -- more like he was crazy.

"Come on. You don't watch Saturday Night Live? Those are some classic sketches. Tina Fey, Colin Ferrell, Amy Poehler and Seth Meyers as the sex-addicted-no-safety-word --" He cut off when he saw that none of it was ringing a bell in his coworker's mind.

"I've been trying to set a better impression for Linds, not stayin' up too late when I can."

Warrick rolled his eyes. "Aw, playin' it conservative, Cath? Whatever happened to the badass party animal queen of Vegas?"

"She hit 40," Catherine replied with a resigned sigh. "Having kids changes everything."

"Ah." Warrick nodded with understanding. He couldn't relate to the maternal instincts, but he still understood the consequences of growing up and becoming responsible. Taking on a wife had certainly drilled the point home.

"Anyways." Catherine cleared her throat. "It looks like the good doctor wasn't so good after all. He covered a bunch of scenes for various... important persons... Eventually, he got busted by Sam because he worked a case drunk or something."

"The case wasn't Tam's?"

"No. It sounded like it was later. Based on when he worked for Sam and others, and when Tam's murder took place, it definitely looks like Tam's wasn't the case he worked drunk."

"Okay."

"Your turn," Catherine said, looking across the table at Warrick and the files from Wendy. "Care to share what our trainee found for us?"

"Sure thing. Although I should get _some_ credit for persuadin' Wendy to help."

"Okay. Fine."

"Anyways, according to SuperDave's notes, he definitely bled out from the shot to the head. It was fired from a distance, which is why his whole head isn't gone."

"So, it definitely wasn't a suicide?" Catherine asked, thinking back to her conversation with Bertha about heart-hits.

"Nah. Both shots were fired from a distance, though the one to the chest was closer up."

"So, not a heart-hit?"

"Definitely not. And I'm impressed that you know what that is, Warrick. The extra shot to the chest was just like overkill. Given the location of the first bullet, I'd guess he was still barely alive, or at least might have looked barely alive, after the bullet to the head. You know how occasionally DB's eyes will roll a bit, or their mouths will tighten -- almost looking like they're still moving -- even after they're dead?"

Catherine nodded. "So the shooter probably thought he might not be totally dead, and was in a hurry to make sure he was. Hence, a shot to the heart."

"Exactly."

"Well," Catherine said with a sigh, "I'm glad to know that he at least didn't commit suicide."

"Well, the way you described him, he sounded like a happy kid." Warrick reached a hand over to comfort his friend.

"Yeah, he was," Catherine said, looking down at the pictures, again, sadly. "I just can't figure out why Ari would want to kill him. Even with what we know about the autopsy, it still doesn't make any more sense."

"At least now we have the right COD, whatever good that will do us. And we know there has to be some reason why the coroner fudged the report."

"Well, Schwartzgreiner also got in trouble for comin' in drunk. It could o' just been an honest mistake, the blunder on Tam's autopsy," Catherine replied, flipping the folder over.

"There's only one way to find out," Warrick said with a close-lipped smile.

"I guess it's time to interview the coroner."

"Well, as long as we have our next step, I'd say it's time to get back to our regular jobs. I've gotta go look over how Wendy's doin' and I'm sure you've got a case to work on. Schwartzgreiner being, I'd guess, a relatively normal human being, probably isn't up at this hour anyways."

Catherine chuckled sadly. "Probably true. And, to tell you the truth, I don't think I can handle any more on this case for today. It's emotionally exhausting."

Warrick took a closer look at his friend. "Yeah, you look like you're more than just _emotionally_ exhausted, Cath. How many hours ya been workin' lately anyways?"

"Too many," she replied with a slow, tired roll of the eyes.

"Well, why don't you go catch up on some sleep. I've gotta get back to work. I'll let myself out."

Warrick helped her pack up the files before heading out the door.

Walking down the hallway, he almost crashed into the petite teenager heading back to her own bedroom. She lowered her head, obviously trying to avoid eye contact, but Warrick still didn't miss the familiar blue eyes, or the familiar grocery store apron clutched in her hands.

_So that's why that girl at the grocery store looked so familiar. She was Lindsey Willows._

_

* * *

_

**-- TBC --**


	18. Los Planes para Dormir

WARNING: Mentions (NOT descriptions) of sex (m/m and f/m), hard-ons, and Wendy using... less than ethical means in order to accomplish her goal (though her goal, aside from playing James Bond, is to help Nick).

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Thanks to Appreciates_Fine_Labrats, readingcats, SuzSeb, Atticus, Floranna, Marifw, CSIobsessed444 and longas91 for reviews on the last chapter! Props to Appreciates_Fine_Labrats and readingcats for guessing the language of the last chapter title! It was in fact Klingon. (What did you guys expect from the Trekkies?) Thanks to LaughableBlackStorm for beta, though one scene is entirely unbetaed and that is entirely my fault. The title translates to (approximately) 'Sleeping Arrangements.' So expect both the innocent and dirty implications behind such arrangements. ;P

* * *

CHAPTER 18: LOS PLANES PARA DORMIR

"You have to give him a place to stay!"

"Catherine..." Grissom rubbed his forehead. He had been so close to getting out, and going home with the suddenly-and-unexpectedly-arrived love of his life.

And then Catherine had barged into his office, insisting that he invite Warrick to live in one of his guest rooms.

It was true that Grissom had extra space.

"I can't get involved in the personal lives of my --"

He was interrupted by a laugh. Make that two laughs.

Sara, who had been standing on the other side of his office, reading a copy of _Forensic Examiner_, gave Grissom a pointed look. He'd missed the way she raised her eyebrows. Kind of.

"Fine."

* * *

"Go figure," Nick said, pulling up to one of many empty parking spaces in the largely deserted lot. "Those lazy FBI bums barely even work at night. Bet they don't even bother with a night shift."

Wendy fiddled with her cleavage again. It had been a while since she'd worn such a slinky black dress.

"Well, they probably don't need a night shift. I mean, they don't have to respond immediately to cases the way we do. They take the cases they want to take, and _when_ they want to take them."

Nick huffed. "Exactly. Lazy. Whichever cases they _want_ to take," he remarked bitterly. "So they just didn't _feel_ like taking Greg's case."

Wendy could see his resentment in the rare show of emotion, and she didn't argue the point further.

Pulling down the passenger side mirror, she checked her appearance once more. Lipstick was in place -- bright red and precisely lined, offering her lips extra volume. She smacked them together, hoping to mitigate the plasticky feeling.

How kind of Hodges to inform her of the beauty industry's tendency to use _fish scales_, of all things, in lipstick...

The dark eyeliner was smudged carefully along the top and bottom lids and she had, by some miracle, avoided clumps in her mascara. Lines of strawberry-peach blush, accenting her high cheek bones, brought the look together.

She looked at Nick. Her presentation was one of flawless beauty and seduction, whereas his was adequately nondescript -- the typical, sleep-deprived federal employee, complete with an LVPD badge. She doubted anyone would take time to note the differences between Nick's LVPD badge and a standard FBI badge. He didn't have to worry about make-up because his own sleep deprivation helped him fit his part to a tee.

"We ready to do this?"

They exchanged glances -- Wendy's of nerve and exhilaration, Nick's of resolute calm and determination.

"Let's go," she replied, gulping down her third breath mint and reaching for the door.

"You go first. I'll follow a few minutes later, when you buzz me on the walkie-talkie."

Wendy nodded, feeling for the tiny device stealthily attached to her small black purse.

**

* * *

**

"Excuse me."

The elderly woman at the information desk, currently embroiled in a game of online poker, looked up.

"Yes?"

"I -- I'm looking for my boyfriend, John Carting." Carting, Nick had told her, was leading the case.

"I think he probably left for the day," the receptionist replied.

"Did he?" Wendy asked playfully. "He told me to meet him in a closet -- some space near his office, one likely to be empty..." Her lips curved up, into a knowing smirk. "You know what I mean?"

The receptionist chuckled. "Young love. Of course I know what you mean. Carting's cases got filed into storage in room 213. Check there, hon." Pausing, she added, almost as if trying to retain professionalism, "Just don't get any... you know... on the current case files."

Wendy laughed. "I'll keep that in mind. I promise not to mess with any current case files."

"Well then, have a nice romp, dearie," the woman replied, watching Wendy clunk down the hall toward 213, heels announcing her presence.

"Will do!" she yelled back as she turned the corner and headed for the staircase.

_Man. Walking up stairs in these things is ridiculously hard_, she thought, as she finally emerged from the bothersome stairwell.

Reaching sneakily for her purse, she typed in '213' to the carefully camouflaged walkie-talkie.

Seating herself firmly on the sleek black stilettos, she practiced walking one more time through the last empty corridor. _Heel first. Slightly diagonal. Posture upwards. _

She made her move.

Lips smacked loudly, and Wendy could hear every time the guard's top row of teeth left the chewing gum.

_It's a good thing he's bored._

He leaned against the wall, eyes on the newspaper in front of him. He mumbled lightly when his eyes caught something upsetting in the sports section.

Wendy's heels diverted his attention and he looked up with boredom -- before he realized just who he was looking at. His efforts at subtlety were hopeless, and Wendy could feel his suddenly alert eyes -- no doubt surprised to find such an attractive woman in the sterile building normally only home to workaholics, especially at this hour -- checking her out with only a slight dose of surreptitiousness.

"Can -- can I help you, miss?" Still caught in her trance, he stumbled over his words.

"Yes," she purred, her lips curving into a smile that she hoped screamed predatory and on the prowl for sex -- no matter how ugly a form it came in. The guard looked to be in his early thirties, and his pasty skin hinted to Wendy that he probably didn't go out much. More importantly, ten ringless fingers told her that no vows would likely hold him back from her distractions.

She strutted forward, keeping her gaze even as she focused on the new motions of the stilettos meeting the ground. _Heel. Toe. Heel. Toe. Heel. Toe. Heel -- ugh!_

_Not so smooth_.

She was down in an instant, blushing feverishly.

_That was _so_ not part of the act. _

Nonetheless, she knew she could incorporate it when the man rushed up to help her, though he still wasn't quick enough to stop her from hitting the ground.

_His reflexes are slow -- that's definitely a good sign_, she thought.

"Hey. You alright there, darlin'?"

She avoided snickering at the term of affection. It wouldn't take long to get to his head, she knew. _Or rather, to both of his heads_, she thought, holding back another snicker.

_Nick was right. The path towards distracting a man is _definitely _through his pants. _As he helped her up, she caught a glance -- with real, _practiced_ surreptitiousness-- at his already half-present hard-on.

"Oh, thank you." She hoped it came out a sexy purr, although Wendy had never quite understood how quite to blend a human voice with the feline sound. "You're such a gentleman."

_Hmm. I can really use this falling down business to my advantage..._

He blushed, clearly caught off guard to have a pretty woman giving him the time of day. She almost felt guilty for her ulterior motives. _Almost._

"Why... thank you, ma'am." He seemed to be rushing to conceal the rapidly spreading blush, and probably thinking about dead puppies to bring down the now-very-visible boner.

She crossed her fingers that nobody would notice the missing files, and blame the guard. But, then again, the whole problem was that the Feds hadn't cared about the file, or rather about the case. Why _would_ they miss the case, if they wouldn't even bother to work it anymore? She sighed happily and optimistically, reaching into her pocket and fingering the thin wrapper.

"Um..." He nervously interrupted her train of thought.

She looked up at his nametag... 'Steve.' _He does kind of look like a Steve._ "Yes... Steve?"

He blushed harder. "Um... what, um, brings you here, miss?"

"Miss?" she teased, easily keeping her cool as he lost his. "A minute ago I was ma'am. Why the downgrade?"

"Um... sorry! I didn't mean --"

She had to interrupt his nervous apologizing. "Oh, it's alright, hon. I don't mind. I guess that's what I get for tripping over my heels, huh?"

He nodded blankly and gulped awkwardly. She stifled another chuckle as she caught a glimpse of his hard-on deflating, no doubt the work of careful 'dead puppy' thoughts, or the like.

"It's just..."

_Okay. Now, cue the desperate damsel act._ Imagining Greg's corpse, rotting away in a desert somewhere, she summoned tears.

"I was supposed to have a date today." She gulped, pausing for dramatic effect. "I don't normally wear heels, but he... he --" _Come on, tears. Spill out! _"I wanted to impress him."

She looked up into Steve's eyes to see how well her act was going over. Sympathy was evident in his eyes, barely hiding a look of optimism. Glancing down again, she could see that his other head was, again, equally optimistic.

Gulping heavily, but not visibly forced, she pushed out the lines she knew he was probably eagerly anticipating at that point. "I... I -- caught him... in his office."

"I'm so sorry."

She resisted, once again, the temptation to chuckle, knowing it would ruin her act, as she practically read the horny, eager thoughts out of his mind. "It -- it's alright... I'm just -- I'm just so tired of being alone on a Friday night, you know?"

He stumbled over his words yet again. _Probably deciding whether to admit to being a loner, for risk of sounding like a loser, or for playing the 'sensitive, understanding' card. _She hid her smirk with another choking fake -- but still believable -- dry sob.

"I know what you mean... I mean... I remember feeling that way."

"Remember? You in a relationship?" She turned away, with an upset look she hoped appeared adorably indignant. "Go figure. All the good ones are either taken or gay."

"No," he said, as his face lit up, no doubt at her flattery, which clearly implied that she labeled him one of the 'good ones.' "I'm not in a relationship."

"Oh." She turned to face him again, this time with a smile. "Want to make my night a little less lonely?"

Both heads -- one alert, one nodding -- gave her the affirmation she sought. She hobbled, as fast as she could in the blasted heels, after Steve towards a nearby closet. Wendy hid her smile and clutched her purse tightly, reaching down into it for the walkie-talkie and giving Nick his signal.

**

* * *

**

_Damn, she works fast_, Nick thought as he stared at the signal now emitting from his walkie-talkie. _It's now or never. _He hoped Wendy would be successful in making it to the car -- hopefully even to the guard's house -- so as to allow Nick as much time as possible.

He'd already memorized the building's layout and headed straight for the archives, smiling at the gum wrapper dropped on the floor in front of room 213. Once again, he had chosen gum wrappers as the proverbial bread crumbs to lead him toward his goal. The walkie-talkies, of course, had helped too.

Opening the door carefully, he was relieved to see that there weren't even that many files inside. It took him less than ten minutes to find the file marked 'Tangiers Casino/Gregory Sanders, 2008.'

He smiled down at the name of his lover for one of the few times since the incident. It felt so good to finally be able to _do _something.

_Don't worry, babe,_ he thought._ I'm gonna get you justice. I'm gonna find you, Greggo._

**

* * *

**

Warrick stared at the contents of his life from the last few months. He knew they had been moving too fast. But he wasn't good at saying no. At least not in _that_ position. He growled, recalling the moment that Amy had asked to move in with him.

Hands rolled over his shoulders, squeezing gently. He could sense the familiar presence behind him.

He tried to keep his voice cool. "You get my message?"

"What message?" she purred.

Warrick felt the temperature go up five degrees and time slow down a _whole_ lot.

He didn't turn around to face her. He couldn't.

He pointed his gaze at the bed, willing his focus forward. The bed in front of him was made, neatly. They hadn't slept together in over a week, and not just in the hot and steamy way. Between Warrick's night shift exacerbated by countless doubles and Amy's only slightly more "regular" hours, the bed had been at single occupancy for that long as well. What should have reminded Warrick of the most passionate moments of their relationship only served as yet another embodiment of their incompatibility.

He reached back his left hand to his shoulder, to find Amy's, still pushing friction against the juncture between strong, muscular shoulders and smooth, sensitive neck.

Gently, he worked his fingers over the hand.

Gently, he pushed the tips of his own fingers through hers, tracing soft sinews.

Gently, he brought his fingers together and enveloped her hand.

Gently, he turned around -- still staring at her hand, not her face -- and, gently, he brought the hand back to her side.

"It's over."

"I tried," she said in a small voice.

"I know." He still couldn't look her in the eye.

He knew in that moment that he'd never really given Amy a chance. She was the rebound girl. _His_ rebound girl. There had never been anything really fair about their relationship in the first place.

She wasn't just the rebound girl. She was the little space between the two loves of his life. The brief, necessary pause -- air briefly pulled in with an angry grunt -- between the two breaths of fresh air that left him singing high praises.

He knew she had done her best. He hadn't, but they both knew that; they both should have expected that.

"The apartment is paid off for the month," he said. It was the first time he looked her in the eye throughout the whole exchange. He tried -- he really did this time -- to show his apologies in his eyes. "I'm sorry."

He finished packing his bags, and left her standing alone in the room.

**

* * *

**

Catherine looked carefully around her before crossing the street. It came as no surprise to her that someone who had earned Sam Braun's irk would end up living in such a shady part of town.

An elderly man answered the door. He was very thin, with blondish-grey hair sticking out in scruffs around his head. Catherine could smell the alcohol on his breath as soon as he spoke.

"'Ello?"

"Dr. Schwartzgreiner?"

"Eh, what is it?" His eyes wove a bit, and he leaned heavily on his door frame.

"Hi. I'm Catherine Willows, Sam Braun's daughter. Can I come in?"

The man took a step back, furrowing his brows.

"I just want to talk," Catherine explained. "I just have a few questions. I won't get you in trouble or anything." Reaching into her pocket, she quickly concocted a new plan. "As a matter of fact, if you answer my questions, I can ensure that you are compensated fairly, if you catch my drift."

"How much?" His voice sobered quickly. She imagined seeing the dollar signs flashing in his eyes -- no doubt dollars to buy more liquor.

"500."

He pondered the offer for a second, during which Catherine stole a look at the interior behind him. The house was a mess, and she had no doubt that the 500 dollars offered would be quite a bit to a man like Dr. Schwartzgreiner.

"Fine. Come in," he replied, reluctance dripping through his words. "Whadja wanna know?"

"I want to know about an autopsy you performed."

He stared blankly. "I done a lotta autopsies," he slurred.

She pulled out the tabloid photos, now enhanced with Archie's help.

"Do you recognize this one?"

He tilted his head, staring at the bloody body on the photo.

"Yeah... Yeah, I think I do. What's it to you?"

"Five hundred dollars, as we've already established."

He leaned back and glared softly. "Well, yourra tough cookie."

She smiled, taking it as a compliment. "Thank you, Doctor."

"Oh, I'm no doctor no more," he replied with a slurred chuckle. "Got that revoked -- taken back, that means -- years ago. Dey said I'wuz drinkin'... when I wuz s'posed ta be workin.' Ya know how that is, Ms. Braun? Your daddy made deh same accusation," he said calmly, though still obviously drunkenly.

"I'm sorry about that, Mr. Schwartzgreiner."

He snorted. "Hell, I _was_ drunk. I'm surprised that 'uz the first time he noticed 't."

"I see." She extended the photo further forward. "Were you drunk while working this autopsy?"

He peered over, looking at it more closely. "No... nah. Definitely not. Wouldn'a wanted ta be drunk on _that_ one. 'Uz important 'a Braun, an' Jared, 'is second-n-c'mand, ya know?"

She nodded. "So, the report that goes with it should have been accurate?"

His eyes widened in realization. "Uh no. I see where you'ra goin' with this one, Ms. Braun. An' I can't do it. No sirree."

"You fudged the report," she stated calmly, grateful for drunks' propensity for inadvertently giving away information, even while trying to hide it.

"Dey --" he started nervously. "'E said I can't tell nobody. Can't tell nobody 'bout what really happened tuh dat body, tuh Miss'r Jared's boy."

She raised an eyebrow. "So what really happened is different than what you wrote down, on the official autopsy?"

His eyes widened. "No! Dammit! Wudn't s'posed to say dat." Leaning in, he asked Catherine, eyes hopeful, "You won' tell anybody I tol' you dat, will ya sweetie?"

"No, Mr. Schwartzgreiner, I won't."

"Thanks." He breathed a sigh of relief.

"Just as long as you tell me who told you not to tell."

He was taken aback yet again, and seemed even more terrified by the newest possibility. "N-n-no! I def'nitely can'd do that! Na-ah. Not happen'in. I's a dead man if I tell. An' I don' care 'bout your conn'eshions, sweetie, but I know I'll die a meaner death if I tell ya that -- a meaner death than you'd 'ave the heart ta dole out."

"Mr. Schwartzgreiner...?"

"Out! Out!" He jumped off of his ratty red chair and grabbed Catherine's hand. "Jus' get out! I don' wan' yo' money, jus' get out. Befo' you get me in big treb'le."

"But Mr. --"

"No. No. None of it. I'll have nonna it! Na ah. 'E's a dangerous man, 'at one. Not gonna get in more tre'ble wit' him. 'E can kill a man good, and mis'rable, and I don' want no tre'ble fr'm 'im. You can keep yoor money, Miss Braun. Jus' get outta mah house."

Catherine quickly found herself shoved out, with surprising strength for an old, frail drunk. Nonetheless, she had information -- more than Mr. Schwartzgreiner had ever intended to give out, no doubt.

* * *

"I just got back, and I've barely even seen him."

_Pause, as the caller responded._

"He seems kind of cold."

_Another short pause._

"No. Definitely colder than usual."

_Brief pause, and a sharp, surprised huff from Sara._

"What?! He was _never_ cold! Gr-"

_Mystery caller interrupted Sara. Mystery caller continued to speak. Either that, or put her on hold._

"Fine. I'll describe _every _movement of the ex-boyfriend later."

_Mystery caller says something else, something short._

"It's not like there even was a technical break-up."

_Pause again. Mystery caller talks again._

"Okay, fine. A separation. _Somewhat_ of a break-up message."

_Response._

"Whatever."

_And the goodbye, or so it seems._

"Bye. I miss you."

Sara put down the phone with a huff, as Warrick moved stealthily away from the door. He hadn't meant to eavesdrop on her telephone conversation. More than anything, he hadn't realized that she and Grissom had broken up, especially after he had witnessed such a make-out session between the two. He had barely found out that they have been together for three to four years. It felt like everyone was surprising him today, even himself.

**

* * *

**

Nick stared at the pillow. He'd been avoiding the bedroom, but it was hard. Some days, he just needed the comfort. He just _needed_ the smell and familiarity. How could he just nap on the couch when the pillow -- _Greg'_s pillow, though it had never been officially defined as such -- sat on the bed, still smelling familiar.

Once again, Nick Stokes found himself with a familiar dilemma: to smell or not to smell. As a good CSI, he knew scents would eventually fade and that the more he snuggled that pillow, the less like Greg it was going to smell. If he kept indulging, it would lose the smell eventually. Really, it was inevitable that, at some point in time, the pillow would lose that familiar soft, but tangy smell. That smell that meant lust and love and comfort and home. Nick dreaded that day, and he didn't want to rust it.

When Nick's family down in Texas sent chocolates to Nick for Christmas, Greg had been the one to munch down five chocolates in a day. It was Nick that learned to savor them. Greg would only savor the chocolates if it meant sucking on it slowly and provocatively, and then it wasn't really about the chocolate anyways.

Nick hadn't realized until now just how difficult it was to savor precious things, not to mention what he would do to share a box of chocolates with Greg again. But now, he found himself so easily using up that smell. He could feel the scent fading already, and it had already been a month. He needed the scent on that pillow to last a year (even as the scientist in him told him that that was next to impossible). He tried every day to resist the pillow, but only every other day did he succeed.

He tried mixing Greg's hair care products to create the smell. But it was, as should have been predicted, not replicable. The scent wasn't just the water, acrylates copolymer, acrylates/palmeth-25 acrylate polymer and PEG-40 hydrogenated castor oil of the Goldwell Trendline hair gel combined with the water, rice germ oil, hydrolyzed wheat powder, caramel (how did that even get into a shampoo?), sake (again, shampoo?) and extracts of rice bran, matricaria (which was...?), coconut, kelp, ginseng, citrus peel, Angelica Acutiloba root and ginkgo biloba that made up Greg's Komenuka Bijin shampoo. It wasn't just those natural, uninteresting ingredients. It needed _Greg_. The living, breathing, sweating _person_. It didn't smell the same, and Nick hated that, more than he ever thought he'd hate anything that had to do with hair care products. _He_ needed Greg. But so did the pillow. So did the whole home. It didn't smell the same.

It didn't sound the same either. It needed blaring music -- Marilyn Manson and Metallica, but also the classics that nobody knew Greg listened to. It had turned out that when Nick had came to Greg's apartment that first beautiful day together -- their first night together _that_ way -- Greg had in fact stated correctly that the 'best singer ever' was playing on his stereo. It turned out that Greg had more taste than people gave him credit for. But blasting heavy metal and Aretha Franklin still wouldn't solve the problem. It needed _Greg_ singing along _with_ it. Singing along like an idiot who _clearly_ couldn't reach the high notes but tried anyways.

It needed the flavor of Norwegian cooking, but also of Greg's college cuisine. It needed the flavor of the Chinese food Greg would always order from down the block, even though Nick insisted that it was too wasteful to eat out quite so much. He needed the flavor of the different types of chicken, tofu and veggies (because Greg never stuck with a single dish) that Greg would get there. Nick kind of wanted the Beef and Broccoli that _he _always got there, but not really. Greg's choices were always too spicy for Nick. He didn't really want so much to eat it; only to _taste_ it again. He missed Greg's Norwegian waffles also.

He missed the mess that Greg would always make -- the way Greg would start researching something about his book, and throw papers everywhere, only to go one to the next thing in a hurry, leaving papers and folders everywhere. He missed the way the floor of Greg's office always looked like it had just been victimized by a tornado, and how that tornado -- despite so many talks about how _Greg had his office for a reason_ -- that same tornado always seemed to find its way to the bedroom and living room and dining room.

Somehow, in the process of his musings, Nick found that he had wondered around the house and all the way back, once again, to the bedroom and to the familiar pillow.

Nick missed how Greg _felt_. How _everything_ felt. Tangibly and intangibly, how everything had felt _right_.

_xxxxxxx_

_2005_

_The alarm clock sounded and Nick rolled over, rubbing a sweaty hand over his forehead. His vision was blurry as he maneuvered up. It was one of the few days that he woke up feeling refreshed. A full night's sleep was a wonderful thing._

_Soft, moisturized hands interrupted him, crossing over his half-covered stomach. Suddenly, he wasn't quite as excited to wake up and start the new day. The arms clutched him tighter and he leaned back with a satisfied noise -- it couldn't quite be construed as a moan of pleasure, nor a groan of longing; it was just a quiet, slightly verbal acknowledgement of his happiness to be waking up -- every day, including this one -- in bed with an additional, and priceless, extra blanket. _

_He cast aside the worn green comforter and sunk back into the sweaty, smelly presence of his other blanket -- one Greg Sanders._

_After all, what other blanket made coffee?_

_Turning around deftly, he flipped Greg over so that the younger man's back faced Nick's chest. This was the way that Nick always preferred it. Greg was, clearly, the girl in the relationship, even if Greg himself didn't always seem to know it. With his slender, seductive fingers, long, dark lashes and slim frame -- not to mention the marked interest in physical appearance, as demonstrated, quantitatively, in the sheer number of funky shirts, of minutes devoted to hair styling, and much else -- his femininity was, at least to Nick, obvious._

_Nick wrapped stronger arms around Greg's stomach, covering and shielding growing abdominals. He squeezed Greg and pushed the familiar body more tightly against himself, eliciting a sleepy moan of protest at the force. Greg made half an effort to squirm out but, per usual, was unsuccessful and threw his head back against Nick's shoulder. _

_Greg moved up and, in a surprising show of speed, pushed his head back again, this time gently nudging Nick's head in the process. Taking advantage of the Texan's surprise, he successfully turned around in Nick's arms, so as to find himself face-to-face with his bedmate. _

_Nick chuckled at the adorable scowl on Greg's face. Greg responded by playfully biting the older man's ear, before -- in another surprising show of speed -- pushing Nick's arms away and dashing from the bed. _

_"Coffee's on the way!" Greg shouted from what Nick could only guess was the kitchen. _

_Nick chuckled again at the younger man's energy before following out the door, pushing through thoughts of dead, mangled puppies and silently cursing Greg for the one part of his body that was, by now, definitely alert._

_xxxxxxx_

_FOUR HOURS LATER_

_Nick stared into his living room. Greg was sitting on the couch. Greg's face was intent -- clearly giving away concentration -- and was burrowed in his hands; his eyes were half-glazed and glued on the television. _

_"What's up?"_

_Greg didn't bother to turn his head at the question, and instead opted to shrug his shoulders. "Just watchin.'"_

_"You don't need Viagra quite yet, Greggo," Nick said, stifling a concerned laugh and making his way for the couch. _

_"Huh?" Greg's gaze switched to Nick, though the glazed look didn't leave his eyes._

_"The commercial?" Nick motioned for the TV, which was just getting to the smiling, white-toothed 70-something in front of a tire swing, with blue letters swooping over the screen. _

_Greg turned back to the screen, nodding._

_"I don't think you're watching that infomercial that carefully, Greg." _

_Nick moved to the couch, and Greg scooted over on instinct. _

_Greg glanced back at Nick, his gaze startlingly lucid this time. "What are we?"_

_Nick chuckled nervously. "Uh... homo sapiens."_

_Greg rolled his eyes, moving away from Nick's hands as they made their way toward Greg's shoulders and thighs. _

_Nick scowled and retreated with surprise as Greg subverted the affectionate pat._

_"That's not what I meant." Greg's gaze returned to the infomercial and he mindlessly scrolled through channels, ending on another infomercial, this one for some prepackaged Gospel music set._

_"You want that for Christmas?"_

_Greg shook his head. "That's what the internet is for."_

_Nick nodded, still unsure of how to proceed. He reached a hand for Greg's shoulder again, and the younger man allowed the gesture without looking up._

_The two sat in a slightly amicable silence for a few minutes, watching as song titles rolled down the screen in yellow._

_Greg, surprisingly, was the one to interrupt the silence. "I meant us. _You and me_ us."_

_Nick nodded. "Oh." A part of him -- okay, most of him -- had probably known all along. He just normally tried to avoid that subject. _

_"Where are _we_ going?" _

_Greg put the infomercial on mute, and directed his gaze upward and into Nick's eyes, though his head never left his palms._

_Nick gave the only answer he could -- the honest one. "I don't know."_

**

* * *

**

Light snoring woke Wendy. She glanced over at the pasty man whose bed she was sharing. _Man. Now Nick _really_ owes me. _

Carefully tossing on the tight black dress from the previous night, and grabbing her purse, she quietly headed out.

She could still taste Steve's bubblegum in her mouth. She reached into her purse to grab a breath mint before pulling out her cell phone and calling Nick.

* * *

Nick let go of the pillow and gladly pried himself away from the memories when his phone rang, announcing Wendy's success -- and present need of a ride. He just took one more whiff.

It smelled so good. It looked so good. It sounded good when it chafed against his skin. It tasted good when he kissed it, less chastely than he ought to have been kissing a pillow. It felt so good, even if it didn't feel like Greg.

It _was_ so good.

**--TBC--**


	19. 3 Noticias, 2 Confrontaciones y 1 Beso

The title translates to 'Three Discoveries, Two Confrontations and One Kiss.' Enjoy ;)

* * *

**CHAPTER 19- TRES DESCUBRIMIENTOS, DOS CONFRONTACIONES Y UN BESO**

"So Ari Marvin bribed the coroner?"

"Hell yeah. Schwartzgreiner was definitely, hands-down bribed," Catherine announced as she shut the folder coinciding with the latest case, which Wendy had finally solved.

"You might want to keep it quiet," Warrick replied, glancing around the hallway.

Catherine nodded. "I guess it's just hard to contain my excitement," she replied dryly.

"Well, we're getting somewhere. And it's not like you didn't know this city was corrupt."

Catherine easily caught the emphasis on the word 'you.' It felt like no one on the team would ever quite forgive her for her mob connections, and the role they'd played in past cases. Nobody except Greg, not that he really applied anymore.

Greg, in fact, had been delighted by her connections and reveled in her stories of Vegas old.

But that was beside the point. It was all irrelevant now. She would remember her colleague well, but not now. Now was the time for action and Catherine Willows was, most certainly, a woman of action, not one to sit bemoaning her losses. That was what Grissom was for. Grissom pondered abstract problems while Catherine got the paperwork done. The Romantic and the Pragmatist -- they made an interesting team.

Warrick, somehow, fit somewhere in between, which Catherine appreciated. Sometimes, it almost seemed like he was a switch between the sentimental and the practical, even though few saw his sentimental side. _But enough pondering..._

"So, onto other evidence?" Warrick seemed to have caught on to her train of thought.

"Yeah. Where do you wanna start?"

"The ring should be the easiest to trace."

In truth, the ring was what intrigued Catherine the most, and she didn't want to investigate the death photos anymore. The ring, unlike most of their other evidence, was untouched by blood and other general signs of Tam's death. It was marred only by Ari's guilt -- jewelry theft certainly spoke to his downward cycle.

"You wanna bet whoever bought the ring bought it in town?"

It took Catherine less than a second to affirm the guess. "Might as well assume that right now. Vegas is the best place to start, and I don't really feel like trekkin' out to LA or whatnot to try to find a needle-in-a-haystack jewelry store."

Warrick nodded in agreement. "Hey, ya know there's a Jared Diamond in Vegas."

Catherine nodded. "Yeah. I remember Eddie bought me somethin' from there."

Warrick looked at her with an eyebrow raised, clearly waiting for her to catch on to his train of thought.

"Oh, no. There's no relation between the diamond place and Bruce Jared. Just a coincidence. Bruce Jared's family immigrated to the US after World War II, and Jared Diamonds was around before that. Now that I think of it, I remember Lily going to another place, Roman's, quite a bit. It's a family place, quite established in Vegas. I'd check there first.

"Same general casino crowd," she added as they closed the file.

"So, check there after shift?"

"Sounds good."

Seeing Grissom moving down the hallway, they branched off and got back to work on their own cases.

**

* * *

**AN HOUR LATER**  
**

"This is quite a ruby," the young woman at the desk said with enthusiasm. She leaned in to Catherine, with a glint in her eyes. "You have _very_ nice taste, ma'am."

Catherine chuckled. "Thank you. It's actually not mine."

"Is that so? Well, we'd be happy to show you some more options!" The woman was undeniably perky. Catherine could tell why she'd been chosen for this job, or for any job relating to sales.

Suddenly, the sales associate gasped. "Oh my gosh! You're _her_!"

Catherine looked at her questioningly.

"Marco said I needed to learn how to dance -- he _said_ to check out the girl at the French Palace. The redhead. She _really_ knows how to dance like a showgirl _and_ a stripper."

Slightly stunned, Catherine replied slowly, and calmly, "I don't dance..."

"But you did fifteen years ago! You were incredible."

Catherine was slightly taken aback. "I'll take that as a compliment," she said slowly.

"Oh, do so! I wanted to be a dancer and _everything_ I know I learned from watching you! It's an honor to meet you!"

Catherine chuckled, amused to find herself with a fan -- or rather, this type of fan. "Do you want an autograph?" she asked dryly.

"Ooh, yes! I'd love one!"

Warrick simply stood to the side, looking bemused.

"So..." he hinted, nudging his partner-in-crime.

Catherine nodded imperceptibly as she uncapped a pen from her purse and began to sign the sheet of paper given over by the woman.

Catherine glanced up at the woman and smiled. "Would you mind giving us a hand with something?"

"Sure thing, Ms... I'm sorry, what did you say your real name was? I know your stage name, but..."

"Willows. Catherine Willows." Catherine extended herself for a strong handshake, which the woman gladly took.

"Alicia. Alicia Urbach." She leaned in to whisper flirtatiously in Catherine's ear, "Stage name Sunshine."

Catherine could tell that Warrick heard the last part, though he was keeping it to himself. It was good to be working with someone with such a good poker face.

"So, what was it you needed a hand with?"

Warrick responded this time, playing up the authority of his low voice. "We're trying to track down the owner of this 'ere ring." He fingered the ring in his hands before passing it over.

Alicia raised an eyebrow but said nothing. "I-- I'll go check."

She returned with a sheet of paper, looking slightly paler and slightly more nervous than before.

Warrick and Catherine reached for the paper at the same time.

_Ring purchased by: Ariel Marvin_

_Inscription requested: From Tree to Dew _

Warrick looked up, perplexed. "I don't get it."

"I -- I do."

Catherine paused, and Alicia, who seemed to get the hint, walked away.

"He bought it for Tam. It _was_ an engagement ring for Tam."

* * *

"So, can I see it?" Wendy turned to Nick impatiently. He had been staring at the file -- the file that _she_ had unearthed -- for quite a few minutes, and she hadn't even been able to glance at it for more than a few seconds.

Nick, who looked to be finally done with the file, finally turned it over, allowing Wendy to read.

She was surprised by the contents. No matter how much or little she had heard about that night, it was eerily frightening to see the details scrolled across paper. It sterilized the frightening images her imagination had conjured up, making that night what it was to most of law enforcement -- just another case.

"There's nothing there."

She glanced over at Nick, and the defeated look on his face.

"Or at least nothing I didn't already know," he added.

She nodded again. "It's like they fell off the planet."

He rolled his eyes. "Why do they pick _now_ to be unnoticeable -- upright citizens and such."

That struck Wendy. Perhaps they weren't such upright citizens. "We don't know that for a fact."

"What do you mean?"

"We don't know they're being upright citizens."

"I already checked. No sign of them committing any crimes in any of the 50 states. Or Puerto Rico."

"Then maybe they're not in the US?"

Nick seemed to finally get what she was going at. "That's a possibility, but why --?"

"To avoid getting caught. Duh. What _else _do criminals do once they've pulled off the big heist? They flee the country. I say we check the Bahamas first. That's where _I'd _go."

She glanced at Nick and immediately saw that her borderline-joking comment was earning no points in his book.

"Okay. Never mind. Let's try Mexico."

"How do you suggest we do that? We don't have access to the same records."

"Well," Wendy began, thinking. "We could check newspapers for crime reports. See if there are any that match their MO."

Nick scowled. "Their MO, as far as we know, is a casino heist. I doubt they're pulling off another one. Any other ideas?"

Wendy sighed. She was growing exasperated with Nick's somewhat defeatist attitude. "Tell you what. Let's just check crime reports from all over the country. All crime reports for the last month. It's the best place to start off that I can think of."

Nick sighed, but Wendy dismissed it. "You got any better ideas?" she asked.

He shook his head.

"Okay then. Off to work."

She sighed as he departed for the computers, relieved. She didn't tell Nick, but she knew what description she's be looking for: a DB, 33 years old, sandy brown hair and beaten brutally. _Greg._

Wendy looked over the description of Greg's plight one more time. They had really beat him up. In a way, she was glad that there were no photos of his final moments.

She began scrolling through border cities. Tijuana showed up a host of drug crimes, including Americans who, not so intelligently, made their way south from San Diego into Tijuana to party -- right before committing drug or alcohol-related crimes and, subsequently, ending up spending a lot of time in a justice system they didn't understand. _Not so smart._

To the east of Tijuana was Mexicali, and then Nogales. Plenty more similar issues. Immigration problems. She shuddered at the sight of men, women and children who perished trying to cross the border. Sad eyes also on the faces of breadwinners deported from their hoped-for land of opportunity.

It was when she reached further east that she found it. Ciudad Juarez sat just south of El Paso. Ciudad Juarez, known for 'Los Feminicidios.' A mysterious, gruesome collection of vicious crimes against women and girls. The newspaper was laden with records of missing women -- mostly lower-class. Many had left jobs in factories, known as maquiladors, at night and never made it home. Bodies were found brutally tortured and sexually assaulted. Even after her experience as a CSI-in-training -- after seeing the little corpse of Maura Greene -- Wendy found her stomach turning upon reading many of the descriptions.

That was when she found a different description, also in Juarez, one that horrified -- but, sadly, didn't surprise -- her.

"Stokes?"

"Nick -- you need to come here."

She could vaguely hear an 'okay' through the pager.

Wendy didn't say a word as she laid out the now-printed newspapers, complete with crime records, in front of her. Silently, she picked up the page filled with Juarez's crime beat. When Nick entered, she handed the newspaper print out over.

She could see his eyes trace over the horrors that were -- and still are -- Las Feminicidas. More importantly -- and, for the moment, more heartbreaking -- she could read his features like a picture book when his eyes stepped heavily over the dreaded words:

_Found dead -- a brown-haired Caucasian male of average height who was brutally beaten to death. _

Who nobody recognized and whose death didn't appear to be drug-related. Who was still clutching a bloody handkerchief labeled 'OTJ.'

Wendy and Nick were going to Juarez.

* * *

Warrick laid on the couch, trying to sleep. It should have been easy. He was sleep-deprived enough. He was long done with the sleeping pills of earlier that year. He was long done with having _problems_, of any kind, in his life. All the problems were someone else's -- Nick's, Grissom's, Sara's, Catherine's, Ari Marvin's, Tam Jared's... The list went on, past the lines of cases closed and those left open. There just wasn't room for Warrick to have problems. He was just an observer, a consoler, an investigator. He came in, solved the problem and left. Just left.

But the blue eyes wouldn't pry themselves from his mind, no matter how hard he pushed. They weren't just blue orbs stuck on with Elmer glue. They were suction cups; it was in their very nature to remain. Stubborn magnets -- they belonged there, or so they thought.

They were part Catherine's and part something else, no doubt part Eddie's. But, more than that, they were a hint. A hint of potential.

Bursts of his conversation at the grocery store filtered back through his mind. Blue eyes shifted form, curving upwards, into familiar catlike patterns.

_Catherine_.

_A familiar smirk... _

"What's the smirk for?"

_"Umm... It's just… well, my mom always told me that any man who does the prep work for a meal is a real man. But you never said it's for a meal you're cooking, as opposed to just buyin' stuff for your wife to cook."_

Was Lindsey really one to stutter like that?

_"I'm single... I mean... I'm cooking for my girlfriend."_

_"Oh." The disappointment was clear in her voice and on her face. _

Catherine has always been one to wear her heart on her sleeve.

_"Warrick?" Catherine looked over from her conversation with Grissom. She smiled. Warrick knew that smile. He _knew_ that smile. _

Why was Catherine's _daughter_ making him so darn confused? Why was she disappointed that Warrick was cooking for his girlfriend?

Why couldn't he pry the blue light from his mind's eye?

He shoved his head into the couch pillow, praying that the darkness would aid him in his struggle against the most beautiful blue eyes he had ever felt suctioned onto his own mind. And they weren't Lindsey's.

**

* * *

**

Catherine marched down the hallway insistently, daring anyone to try getting in her way.

"Wendy, what's going on?"

The younger woman, a half an hour away from her just-scheduled week off, turned around. Wendy's face was stoic, but Catherine could detect the underlying anxiety, almost as if the younger woman was hiding something.

"What do you mean?"

Catherine took a few steps forward to meet her on the side of the hallway.

"You and Nick. Both taking off. You guys _know_ we're at a deficit of CSIs right now. With you two gone --"

"You've got Sara. And technically I'm not even a trained CSI."

Catherine nodded, briefly considering the argument.

"So, why do you guys need to take the time off together?"

The anxiety, and now guilt, etched in Wendy's eyes became clearer. "Um..."

Within a second, Catherine had an idea of what was going on. She remembered Greg's last words. _Closure. Forget me... Find someone new._ It only made sense that that someone new would be in the Lab, working the same shift as Nick. Still, she felt protective of Wendy. She didn't want the woman to get hurt by being the rebound girl.

Wendy's features now bore a resolute expression. _She looks like she can handle anything._

Catherine leaned in to talk softly in Wendy's ear. "Just be careful. He's got a lot of baggage right now. It's been a rough month, especially for Nick. Think less romance and more relaxation."

Wendy paused for a second, no doubt surprised to be caught on the romantic endeavor, but steeled her face again. "Duly noted."

Catherine nodded at Wendy professionally before heading back to Grissom's office. Grissom looked distracted himself.

"Give them clearance. Let them take the break. They need it. And it's not like _you_ can talk about office romance."

Grissom looked up expectantly.

"You want an explanation, I take it?"

"That would be nice."

"He needs help getting over it. Getting over --"

"Greg? You mean getting over Greg the way you got over Warrick?"

Catherine was stunned for many reasons, not the least of which being the idea of a Gil Grissom capable of noticing any interpersonal, let alone romantic, relationships between... well, any non-insects.

She disregarded the implications about herself -- that was, for the moment, unimportant -- and skipped straight to Greg's secret. "How -- how did you know? Greg didn't want anyone to know. And you --"

"Sara told me."

Catherine shook her head, sighing.

"Well, then maybe she also told you what Greg's last words were?" she asked, her voice catching.

Grissom looked up, and his expression read empathy in as clear of a manner as Gil Grissom's face could be read.

"He told Nick to get over him. And if Wendy's willing to help him -- which she said she was -- then I say go for it."

"Well, romantic relationships between coworkers --"

Catherine smirked. "Don't even try that."

Grissom glared at her. "If you and Warrick -- and I guess now Sara -- are willing to pick up the slack..."

She laughed dryly. "Since when do we even have a choice on that matter?"

Grissom nodded, handing her the now-authorized paperwork. She could see that the rest of the supervisor's section of the form was blank, and clearly hers to fill out. _Some things never change._

**

* * *

**

Warrick was in the break room, waiting for her. Reliably. Oh, how good it felt to have someone so reliable. She had been right that night to call Warrick. Even if he hadn't made it work quite right -- even if he hadn't saved Greg -- he had done his darnedist. He had done the best job anyone could have, even giving his own SUV, which said a lot for a just-divorced, barely-past-broke man. Really, the CSI who had been most able to change Greg's fate had been Greg himself. But somehow the stubborn integrity -- a stubborn integrity Catherine hadn't quite known the younger CSI possessed -- had won out. Greg had died a hero.

"How'd it go?"

Warrick's words, as they always seemed to do, reclaimed her attention, taking it away from the horrid events. And when she looked up, she realized she was looking at a living hero.

Looking into his eyes, she caught an edge of sympathy, but also of something more than that. There was something in his eyes that she hadn't seen since she and Eddie were newlyweds. Something she wasn't even quite sure she saw reflected in Grissom and Sara's eyes.

That was it. Warrick was her rock. His poker face was down and she could see the love in his eyes.

"It went fine," she said slowly, knowing it didn't really matter for the moment anyways.

He nodded, but didn't break eye contact. Somehow their conversation had quickly turned into something totally unrelated to the case, or the conversation with Grissom.

As his eyes widened and grew in love, she met them. It reminded her of the olden days. Back before anyone had died or left -- or at least anyone other than Holly Gribbs. Back before Tina "Yoko" Brown and before Amy, whose last name was unimportant. Back when everything was simpler. Back when she could luxuriate in the tender glances of Warrick Brown on a regular basis.

Like always, they were in sync when they leaned in, and in sync when their lips touched.

And, like always, something -- work -- reared its ugly head immediately.

"Hey! What the hell do you think you're doing?!"

Catherine and Warrick bumped heads as they looked up. An angry Texan met both of their gazes.

"Y'all can't be makin' out in the break room! Whad'ya think this is?! It's inappropriate!"

At the back of her mind, Catherine knew the interruption had something to do with Greg -- with the fact that Nick couldn't have his own lover-coworker to kiss. And she could understand that. She had already told off Grissom and Sara and their romances in public view. It was only fair to live up to her own expectations.

* * *

Nick felt a tug on his arm -- a strong tug that caught him off guard and dragged him out of the break room.

Sara wore an angry scowl, and he wasn't brave enough to argue with her when she had that face on.

"We're going. Now."

She continued to drag him out all the way to the back of the building where few employees treaded. When they approached an empty room, she motioned to a chair. There were no tables and only three worn chairs in the middle of the small sterile-looking room. Nick obliged wordlessly, but Sara herself remained standing.

"I know what's going on."

Nick looked up, slightly startled.

"Catherine and Warrick are willing to coddle you over this. I'm not. I _know_ why seeing other people in... romantic situations bother you. You don't have Greg."

Nick simply nodded. Somehow his secret didn't mean quite so much now that it was partially out. And now that that night had already happened. He sighed in defeat. "What do you want, Sara?"

"It's not about what I want."

"Then what is it about?"

"What Greg wants."

Nick responded by staring at Sara as if she were crazy. "Greg's dead. What can _he_ want?"

"You to get over him. Just like he told you." Her expression was adamant. Crossed arms and her at-the-moment height advantage made her an imposing figure.

"He wanted to be loved."

"Yes. Yes, he did. But it's a little too late for that now."

Nick glared at her. "I loved him."

"Maybe in your own screwed up way, you did."

"Sara!" Nick looked across at her, distraught.

She finally moved to sit down, quietly reaching for one of the chairs to the side. "Like I said, I'm being honest. I know you can handle it. You just have to find it in yourself."

Nick stared at his clenched hands, but remained silent

Sara leaned in to look Nick in the eyes. "Nick, you guys were heading toward breaking up anyways. Do you really not know that? Did you _really_ not sense that?"

"Why? How?"

Sara ignored the question. "What did Greg know about you, Nick?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Exactly what I just said."

He opened his mouth, puzzled by the cryptic words.

"God, you're such a guy. You're worse than _me_! You're just about worse than _Grissom_! You make _us_ look functional! Do you understand how bad that is?!" She waved her hands in frustration, glancing briefly at the ceiling as if looking for guidance.

Nick looked up, momentarily distracted. "I didn't realize you guys were that bad."

Sara rolled her eyes. "He thought he was doing something wrong, Nick. He thought it was his fault you didn't open up to him. You'd go hang out with Warrick, do your bonding and leave Greg behind. Then you'd come back home, eat whatever he cooked, maybe have sex --"

Nick looked at her in disbelief at the last three words.

"What? He told me everything. He told _me_ everything because he couldn't tell _you_. You understand what's wrong with _that_?"

Nick stared blankly and gave the only response he could give. "I loved him."

"That's all fine and dandy for you to say now to _me_, but _he_ didn't think so."

"Sara, why are you _telling_ me this _now_?" Nick felt his fury and frustration rising quickly.

"Because you owe it to him. Because he poured himself into the relationship." Now Nick could see the tears clinging to Sara's eyes. "Because you owe him that much."

"What?! What do I owe him?! What could I possibly do for him _now_..." Nick's voice lost its volume as he trembled out, "Now that he's gone..."

Sara sighed, but kept her face stoic. "You can do the one thing he asked of you. You can get over him."

Nick looked up in disbelief, but it quickly gave way to acquiescence. "Fine."

They got up off of the old chairs littering the room. Sara reached out a hand for Nick as he made for the door.

"He was going to break up with you, Nick. He just couldn't figure out how," she said softly.

"Why?" Nick asked, desperation filling his voice.

Sara instead answered once again with another question. "How often did you fight, Nick?"

Nick shrugged his shoulders.

"How often would he ask you how you were feeling? And then you'd just blow him off?"

Nick shrugged again.

"How often did you really tell him how you felt? How often did you really open up to him, especially after Walter Gordan?"

Nick looked perplexed.

"There's your answer." Sara made to move to the door again, but stopped herself. "Nick -- do Greg the favor, but, more than anything, do _yourself_ a favor, and go find someone else. And once you find them, trust them. Once you find them, pull out all the stops and love them." She paused, pursing her lips and blinking back tears. "Let them _know _you love them. Please."

Nick couldn't quite force his head to nod -- he was too overwhelmed -- but he walked slowly out the door and both he and Sara knew he would try.

A familiar redhead interrupted their walk out. Now it was Sara's turn to be dragged out of a room.

* * *

MEANWHILE

"They've been gone a while," Warrick observed.

Awkward silence had held the pair of CSI Level 3s since Sara dragged Nick away.

Catherine could only nod.

"I'll go check on them," he said tentatively, seemingly watching for Catherine's reaction.

"No." She knew that was a bad idea, if Sara's conversation was about what she thought it was about. "I'll go."

"I'll come too," he offered kindly.

"No, it's alright." She knew he might be offended by her decision -- they'd been working together on Nick for so long, and now again on the Tam Jared case. She felt awful for the next four words that came out of her mouth, as they were bitterly ironic and false. She held the biggest secret -- Nick and Greg's relationship -- from Warrick. But she still had to say them. "Trust me on this."

He nodded.

It hurt Catherine to see how much trust Warrick placed in her, and to know that she was betraying it at that very moment, following a moment of such intimacy.

She walked down the hallway swiftly, trying to pry Warrick's unsuspecting eyes from her mind.

She was almost grateful for the display that interrupted her own troubles. Tears filled both sets of eyes, and she knew it was time for an intervention.

"What did you tell him, Sara?!"

"The truth! Greg's gone and Nick needs to get over him. He barely loved Greg when Greg was alive, and it's hardly time to start now."

Catherine stared disbelieving at the woman she used to call a friend. "Let me get this straight," she said, trying to slow her speech, despite the overriding anger. "You break my best friend's heart. Then come _back_ and decide to start _interfering_ in the lives of the rest of this team?! Do you not understand that we're barely keeping it together in the first place?! Nick's..." She didn't want to say 'heartbroken' out loud.

"I know about Nick and Greg," Sara cut in curtly.

Catherine nodded to herself before standing up straight and looking Sara in the eye. "Then you know this is _not _what he needs right now." Trying to appeal to Sara's empathy, she added, "He's barely keeping it together, Sara. Please. Cut the poor man some slack."

"I've done what I need to do, and made my point. Nick needed to know that his relationship was barely together."

Catherine shook her head, still in shock as the other woman stalked down the hallway.

Catherine turned to Nick, who had migrated to the back of the room. She honestly couldn't tell if he had heard the conversation.

"Nick. Please disregard everything Sara just said. You're a good guy, and I'm sure you were good to Greg."

She patted him on the shoulder and he seemed to accept the gesture, along with the words attached.

* * *

Catherine finally ambled back into the room -- the room of the kiss that almost was -- to find the almost-boyfriend she'd always wanted still in there.

She felt another fracture strike her heart as she saw that he was still studying the 'Tam Jared' case. Hopefully he hadn't been studying it all this time. That would make her feel even more guilty.

Still, there were only so many levels to which her guilt would climb. She knew she had to take the next step, and that it would hurt. More than that, it would hurt Warrick, and it would, most likely, irreparably damage the relationship they'd built up to over all those years. Nonetheless, it had to be done. It was better this way, she told herself again and again. With intimacy came trust and she knew that, at the moment -- in every moment that passed since the hostage crisis and Greg's death -- that she was betraying Warrick's trust.

A part of her cursed her former colleague in his grave, or whichever sad desert strip his carcass laid on.

_Too many promises._

She couldn't keep Greg's promise if she started a relationship with Warrick. She needed -- wanted -- Warrick's help with the case. But it didn't make sense to add any more trust to their relationship -- because intimacy came, invariably, with trust at its side -- at least not while she was lying to him about why his best friend was dying inside every day.

Warrick looked up at her and smiled. It was a calm smile, the kind that she knew he _had_ to know could always make her feel better.

"Hey," he said. His voice was so soft, so smooth, yet still so sexily husky. So alluring and so... turned on. "Let's go somewhere private for a few minutes."  
As tired and stressed -- and enchanted -- as she was, she could only nod.

They walked slowly down the stairs toward the shelves of old case files. Nobody ever went there, and the cameras didn't catch every aisle.

And Warrick and Catherine _both_ knew which aisles couldn't be caught on camera.

Looking into Warrick's eyes one last time, Catherine came to her decision.

_Screw trust and intimacy. We trust each other. We love each other and we _need_ each other. It's been way too long since I found someone like Warrick. Really, I've never found anyone like Warrick, except Warrick. I've been waiting this many years. I've been trying this many years. _

She knew that, ultimately, Greg and Nick's problems were Greg and Nick's problems. Greg's secret was -- through no fault of hers -- now hers to keep, but it wasn't her burden. She didn't choose the secret, and she wasn't going to let it hold back her own life.

Catherine Willows worked for the justice of the dead, but she lived for the _living_; she had no intention of letting life and its joys pass her by.

* * *

**--TBC--**


	20. Cuenta el Secreto

The title translates to 'Tell The Secret' (or at least it's supposed to). Thanks to SuzSeb, Marifw, QueenOfTheUniverse, Anonymous_Sister_Of_The_Author, LostLadyKnight, Meg, Atticus and longas91 for reviews on the last chapter, and to LaughableBlackStorm for beta.

* * *

**CHAPTER 20: CUENTA EL SECRETO**

"We shouldn't stay down here too long," Warrick whispered.

Catherine just groaned in response. He loved the blissful look on her face, almost more than he loved that he'd been able to provoke it. All they'd done was kiss, but for now, that seemed like more than enough to fill the equation for happiness.

They were certainly closer to that wonderful state than anyone else he could think of.

But he and Cath had earned it. It wasn't that they deserved it more than anyone else. It was that they had _worked_ for it. They had been working together, building trust and forging a strong bond over the last decade. It wasn't the start of a good thing, but the culmination. It would only go up from there. Warrick couldn't remember having felt so optimistic in a very long time.

Still, it was time to get back to helping the rest of the world, or at least the rest of the Lab -- everyone else in their lives who still had problems.

He looked down to see that Catherine was staring intently at him. He loved her eyes. Especially when they smiled, but almost equally when they curved up flirtatiously.

"Where to next?" he asked.

"Apparently not the bedroom?" she asked, biting her lip. It was an unusual display of... very un-Catherine-like behavior. He had to chalk it up to some combination of adrenaline and romance.

It was nice to know he could get her flustered. Flustering a woman like Catherine Willows was far from easy.

He leaned down to whisper close in her ear, catching a red hair in his mouth in the process. "Back to the case."

He wanted to follow it up with some sugary sweet term of endearment, but none flew naturally. Treating her as his friend, professional and equal was long ingrained in his mind, and terms of endearment did not flow out quite right. But he would work on it.

Catherine nodded and followed.

They made their way back up the stairs, finally finding themselves in a back room clutching the box of evidence.

"What else do we have?"

"Nothing I can think of," he replied, rather despondently.

"Well," -- a smile suddenly lit up her face -- "in honor of today," -- her eyes grew more flirtatious -- "let's try something new."

"And what do you propose... Ms. Willows?" he asked. Somehow the right term had finally found him.

"Well... Mr. Brown," she said with an extra smile. "I think I have an idea. We'll check in with the living."

He looked at her curiously.

"I remember something," she said, her face alight. "I know which robber didn't leave Vegas."

**

* * *

**

_THE CASINO_

_Nick and Catherine could hear the shouting from the room. It started softly, but escalated quickly. Ari's jagged temper sent yells like lightning bolts, and neither Catherine nor Nick wanted to think of Greg on the receiving end. Worse yet was when shouts were joined, and gradually replaced, by anguished cries. _

_Biggs looked out curiously in the direction of the room. Richie's legs were bent in a show of forced ease, as he reached into a pocket of his black baggy jeans. _

_"Smoke?" He extended a hand, clutching a cigarette in two fingers, toward Biggs, who dismissed him with a grunt and a turn of the hand; the older man was clearly more engaged in discerning the events in the next room. _

_Julian was splayed out like a cobra next to Catherine and Nick, clearly watching them for reactions. His brow furrowed under the mask as he turned his head from the exchange, scanning his surroundings closely. Barely lifting an eye, he reached out to snag the cigarette just offered to and rejected by Biggs__ out of Richie's hand. The smaller man responded with a barely concealed glare. _

_The screams continued as misshapen rings of smoke staggered out from Richie's cigarette. The smaller man watched the door with baited breath, along with what Catherine could only hope wasn't eager anticipation._

_It was an eerie calmness where the five sat -- two CSIs and three robbers -- waiting, as Richie's haphazard breathing, Nick's steadily tapping fingers, Ari's paced cadences of angry lecturing and yelling, and Greg's interspersed screams provided a morbid rhythm. _

_The noises built, speeding up in Catherine's mind, into an overwhelming crescendo. Glancing at the room once more, she sought a means to break it. _

_She watched as Biggs turned away from the wall with a bored sigh. He set his head back against the wall behind him and closed an eye, exhaling deeply. _

_Catherine tapped him on the shoulder and he raised one eyelid to meet her stare, waiting for her motive._

_"Why?" she asked._

_"It's the way it works," he replied matter-of-factly. "It's the way it's always worked. With us, I mean. In prison. It's how we get by." He set his head back again and closed both eyes, exhaling again, this time softer._

_As if having a second thought, he leaned in and whispered to Catherine in a gruff voice, "I'm sorry about your friend." He paused. "This is what he's trained to do. In twenty years in prison, well... you can see what Ari learned."_

_Catherine nodded, her expression hardly wavering. "Cruelty. That's what he learned."_

_Biggs pursed his lips and nodded. "It's the only thing there is to teach there."_

_"Rehabilitation?"_

_He shrugged his shoulders. "Works for some guys. Not for others. Ari... it wasn't going to work for him. He had so much anger pent up -- _too_ much, if you ask me. And I've seen guys with anger, believe me."_

_"Working as a Crime Scene Investigator trained to lock guys like you up, I don't doubt you." She stared at Biggs, questioningly. _

_He nodded sadly. "I don't remember where I crossed the line, if that's what you're wondering. That whole shrink fest they throw at us, every time we did something to piss _someone _off in prison -- they'd always ask that."_

_She looked over at him, slightly puzzled, and saw the massive and oppressive force in a slightly new light. "Anyone ever tell you you're a pretty sensitive guy, Biggs?"_

_He threw back his head and chuckled lightly. "Mainly they just say I'm a _big_ guy. That's _my_ job." He extended his arm, flexed a muscle and smiled. _

_Another pained scream from the other room broke the smile. "My job is to be the enforcer. It's always been that way. That's the only way I got away with being _sensitive" -- _the words were uttered with moderate distaste -- "for that long." He paused. "Nobody wanted to mess with me. It was my job to mess with other people."_

_"_Mess..._ with other people?" The question was wary, and he dodged it with an equally reluctant and evasive shrug._

_Catherine nodded, unsurprised. "You guys some kind of... prison gang?"_

_He chuckled again. "I guess you could call it that. We protected each other. One by one. First it was Julian."_

_Catherine nodded. Julian seemed the oldest -- she couldn't quite pin why that was -- and he also gave off the creepiest vibes, at least to her. _

_"I came in and just... fell into place with him."_

_She nodded again. _

_"We made good friends, him with the smarts and me with muscles. No one messed with us."_

_"Well, I know I sure wouldn't have wanted to mess with you. At least not with those guns." She eyed his significant muscles again. _

_"Don't worry. I don't mess with ladies."_

_Catherine raised an eyebrow. _

_He looked sheepish. "I mean... I have a sister. Carol. I protected her. Later on, I helped feed her habit -- and my habit too, of course."_

_"Drug runner? Or enforcer, or both?"_

_"Whatever the big guy wanted me to be."_

_Biggs was a follower. Catherine could see it in everything he did. He didn't seem villainous the way that Julian did. Julian felt like someone who would have showed up to Lady Heather's Dominion asking for the whole package. _

_Richie, on the other hand, seemed like a guy with low self-confidence. Carefully noting Richie's nervousness, over-aggression and small stature, at least in comparison to his co-conspirators, she couldn't help recollecting the old adage, well-worn in suspect profiling: the abused often turns into the abuser. _

_She could see through Biggs' large and straightforward eyes that he followed whichever orders were given to him._

_"What does the big guy normally want you to be?"_

_He shrugged again. "I mess with people that he needs messed with."_

_"Messed with?"_

_"Eh... you know... Beat them for info, or to send a message..."_

_"Biggs?" The chastising voice came from Julian, who glared at Catherine with condescension. _

_"Sorry, Jules."_

_"Don't call me that." The voice was steely and devoid of emotion. Julian turned back to the wall and exhaled another puff of smoke, his fatigue evident._

_Suddenly, the door opened. Catherine could not contain her anticipation, though, for the life of her, she couldn't tell whether it was optimism, curiosity, desperation or pre-emptive grief that struck her first. _

_When Ari's hands, covered in blood, became visible, she grasped Nick for support, and, largely, to keep the younger man from doing anything stupid. _

_Ari's words were quick. "Take care of all the evidence. And remember the price for disobeying me." He turned his head back to the door left ajar -- the door still blocking them from Greg. _

_Catherine nodded, grateful for something to do. The next moments came as a blur, as the three remaining robbers tailed Catherine and Nick, watching them clear all evidence from the scene. In all her years as a CSI, Catherine was grateful for how mechanical the process had become, even if she wasn't used to wiping away fingerprints or blood in their entirety. _

_The familiar work was useful in blocking out the screams coming from the other room._

**

* * *

  
**

It was a slow process.

"Carol A. Biggs. St. Louis, Missouri," Warrick read, voice even. Then his tone went back to despondence. "Age 92."

Catherine sighed. "Definitely not the sister."

_Name after name. _

"We don't even know if his real last name is Biggs," she said with a sigh of exasperation and exhaustion.

They had been there for three hours.

_Carol M. Biggs, Detroit._

_Carol R. Biggs, Middle-of-nowhere, Wyoming._

The names all blurred together...

"Hmmm?" she asked groggily.

Catherine hadn't realized until she felt the tap on her shoulder that she had fallen asleep.

She glanced up. Warrick was holding a single sheet of paper, with four lines scrawled down -- an address.

"Carol Bigsby. Age 35. Arrested twice in the late 80s for possession."

Catherine nodded.

"One brother -- a Sam 'Biggs' Bigsby -- convicted in 1983 of a variety of drug-and-gang-related activities. He served 23 years at High Desert Correctional Facility."

"That's the same prison where Ari did his time," Catherine blurted, eyes widening in excitement. She pointed to the sheet. "That's _her._"

"Yep. As could be suspected," Warrick added, "Sam Bigsby has no known address."

Catherine rolled her eyes. "No surprise there. But I bet I know where he is," she said, glancing over the paper again. "According to Carol Bigsby's parole officer, she moved from Las Vegas Boulevard to Henderson two weeks ago." She looked up at Warrick with a grin on her face. "You wanna bet where she got the money to do _that_?"

"Biggs' money from the heist."

"Bingo."

"Guess it's off to Henderson, then."

Catherine smiled flirtatiously in agreement before marching out the door, partner in tow.

* * *

It was a short drive to the small, nondescript suburban house. The neighborhood was nice, and Warrick could guess that Carol Bigsby's older brother had pulled out all the stops to help her move in here.

Carol Bigsby was a thin woman. Thin, oily hair did little to accentuate her sallow countenance. A hollow face and nervously twitching fingers verified the two convictions on possession of methamphetamine and heroin.

Most days, Warrick would have warned a person of interest, or anyone really, that taking stimulants and depressants together was generally a bad idea. But today they had a mission and, for once, no warrant; antagonizing the woman was not in their best interest.

"M-may I help you with something?" Her voice was scratchy and weak, no doubt from far too many substances inhaled. Sad doe eyes -- slightly lighter than the brown of Nick's eyes -- looked up at them, and Warrick could make out some form of forlorn beauty long lost in the woman.

"Yes. We're looking for your brother. We have some business to discuss with him," Catherine said, smiling. Warrick hoped she was right about not taking out their badges. After all, they were coming to the house on their own personal investigation, not with LVPD authorization.

Carol looked over both of them -- more like she was looking over a solicitor than checking either out -- and glanced up, almost making eye contact with Catherine.

"Tell him we're friends of Ari's," Catherine added. It wasn't quite a lie, since Catherine _had_ been Ari's friend back in the day.

Carol yelled up the stairs, her small voice carrying and echoing, no doubt in part thanks to the high ceilings.

A louder, but still gentle voice echoed back. "Coming."

Heavy footsteps ambled through and finally the large man stood in front of Catherine and Warrick, his eyes widening. Warrick touched his gun reflexively, sending Biggs the clear message not to run.

Catherine glanced at Warrick, and he could read her mind in the small nod of her head: _It's him._

Biggs, unlike his sister, looked Catherine in the eye. "P-please. D-don't take --"

"It's alright." Catherine immediately reached up a hand for his shoulder to assure him. Biggs flinched, no doubt expecting a knife or gun. "We're not gonna take the money. I can see that you're just trying to help your sister."

Biggs nodded, though he looked rather dazed. He was clearly still catching his breath from the shock of seeing two of the cops from that night.

"We're not going to arrest you. We just want to talk." Catherine flicked back a strand of hair from her face, though it was more in a show of deference than flirtation. "I was hoping you'd be willing to answer a few questions about Ari."

Biggs' eyes widened and he blinked slowly before opening the door wide. "Come in."

Part of Warrick was nervous about entering, upon invitation, a probable-murderer's home. Nonetheless, he trusted his partner and followed her though the door and over to a nearby sofa.

It looked like Biggs was still in the process of unpacking the furniture. Two sofas were unpacked, but very new looking -- they were both an almost-unnaturally bright, clean yellow. A television box, which did not look like it had been unwrapped, sat in one corner of the room, and a simple, round maple coffee table was nestled between the sofas.

Warrick, still gripping his gun in case, moved agilely behind Catherine and onto the couch, a foot apart from her. Biggs took the other couch.

"So what do you want to know?" the man asked.

"What made him that way. Why he... why he killed Owen Jared."

Biggs nodded. "You knew Tam."

Catherine nodded back slowly. "He talked about him to you?"

Biggs chuckled uneasily and Warrick stared at him, confused.

"Pronouns," the ex-con explained. "Jules always lectured us on them."

"Jules? That's Julian."

Biggs nodded.

Warrick was slightly surprised at how fast and willingly the man gave up information, but he had to chalk it up the guns visibly nestled in both CSIs' holsters.

"What did Ari say about Tam?"

"That he loved Tam. And that he hated Tam."

"That's it?" Warrick asked.

Biggs nodded.

"So nothing about how he died, why Ari killed him? Ari _did _kill him, right?"

Biggs nodded again. "He felt really guilty about it."

"Did he say why?"

"He said Tam betrayed him. Sometimes, he'd say it was '_the man's fault_.' But that's kind of typical for prison."

"Blame the system," Warrick said, familiar with the idea.

Biggs nodded.

Warrick glanced at Catherine, clearly asking for a chance to ask a question. Her eyes nodded, in the way he'd grown accustomed to.

Warrick cleared his throat. "Mr. Bigsby, if you don't mind my asking, why are you so comfortable just... giving away the information?"

"It's not like you'll be able to find any of them," Biggs replied, with a surprising laugh. "They're gone. Waayy out of your jurisdiction."

Warrick nodded.

There was nothing left to say.

Catherine sighed as they moved to leave the house. "Vague, enigmatic and indignant. Why am I not surprised?"

"Wait --"

Catherine and Warrick turned around simultaneously to see what it was that Biggs had to say.

"I'm sorry about Greg Sanders." He paused, looking down guiltily. "Say sorry especially to Nick Stokes. I know it's got to be hard on him. To lose his boyfriend like that. I could tell they loved each other."

Warrick stared speechlessly.

* * *

Nick glared ahead at the road and watched time pass. Angrily, he stared again at the clock.

"Nick," Wendy said gently. "You might want to keep your eyes on the road."

He nodded. Driving gave him something to do, but all he wanted to do was think about his destination.

He remembered one of the many quotes thrown around by Grissom. He was fairly certain that Grissom had told him the one he was thinking of, "The journey is more important than the destination," more than once. But the saying didn't apply now. The journey didn't matter. It was finding Greg's corpse that mattered. It was getting Greg closure.

He couldn't wait to see those eyes again, the way they could dance and melt at the same time. The way they crinkled up in a beautiful smile. But he knew that Greg had died crying, not smiling. Crying as he said goodbye to Nick.

"Nick. Why don't I drive?"

He looked at Wendy as the world swerved around him. He reached for the steering wheel to correct it just in time.

He realized the tears had begun to cloud his vision, and that that was probably the reason he wasn't driving so well.

"Fine."

He pulled over sharply and Wendy opened her car door. She walked over to Nick's door. He made the connection and unbuckled his seatbelt before forcing the door open, almost slamming it into Wendy. It clipped her in the side, but she didn't say a word.

"Sorry," he mumbled as he walked over to the other side of the car.

"It's alright," she said without a second glance. He appreciated how understanding she'd been for the entire case. Normally, he was the kind of person who did a good job at being friendly, expressing gratitude and such. _Just not for Greg_, the voice in the back of his head reminded him.

He nodded to himself absentmindedly as Wendy glanced away.

Normally, he would have done a better job of expressing his gratitude at her help, but lately he had just been so... _distracted_. Living people just didn't matter quite so much anymore. But he was trying. He really was.

He just had to find closure. That's what Sara had said. Closure would make everything alright. It was what Greg _wanted_. He _wanted_ Nick to get over him.

Nick hadn't been so good at the whole compromise thing while he'd been with Greg, but he figured now was the time to try. His plan was a fair compromise: he would _get over_ Greg, just not forget him.

He appreciated Wendy's silence on the road over. It gave him time to digest the thoughts pulsing through his mind. It was surreal. _Greg_. He would get to see Greg again. He would find Greg.

_Solution._

He imagined Greg's face -- the sad look on Greg's face. He imagined laying his lover to rest. He imagined the funeral he knew Greg wanted. Because he _knew_ what Greg wanted because they _had_ had that conversation.

xxxxxxx

_Greg shifted in Nick's arms, on the bed. It was too early to go to sleep, but both were struck by a post-coital haze._

_"Don't fall asleep on me now, Greggo."_

_Greg nodded, though his eyes fluttered._

_"Fallin' sleep 'ill mess up your schedule."_

_Greg nodded again, burrowing his face fully between Nick's arm and chest. Now only dyed auburn hair faced him. Nick stroked it. He would never admit it, but petting Greg's hair reminded him of petting a dog or cat; it soothed him. It made everything alright._

_Greg was like a dog; he often needed to be disciplined, and reminded of what he shouldn't do -- like eating dessert before dinner, falling asleep in clothes from the previous day, not wasting his time or money on frivolous pursuits like hair gel (though Nick hadn't quite managed to convince Greg, in entirety, to give up that one), not wearing fancy but impractical, effeminate shirts that Greg could never wear to work, going to concerts when he could just listen to the songs on the radio or YouTube..._

Scratch that,_ Nick thought. Sometimes, Greg was more like a spoiled child. But still, there was something dog-like about him. The way he always looked at Nick so innocently, so naïve... like whatever someone said was just... true... like everything would just be inherently alright. Greg just didn't know the world. Even after the beating, he didn't seem to understand how bad people were, or, more importantly, that he needed to be more careful. _

_Greg was like a dog because he _trusted_ everybody. It was like he didn't realize how easily people let each other down._ _He just _trusted _them. It was so silly. Someday, Nick was going to finally convince Greg not to do that. Just not today. As bad as Greg's naïve trust was, it was an addicting quality of the young man, and Nick, at moments like these, with Greg tucked into his arm as Nick recovered from the blissful heights Greg brought him to so easily, it was hard to think about such education._

_"Someday," Greg murmured into Nick's chest. "Someday, I'm gonna retire. And I'll set my own schedule. It'll be grand. Then I can fall asleep after sex."_

_Nick chuckled. "Now why would you ever wanna do that?"_

_Greg seemed to find the strength to lift his head in order to look at Nick in disbelief. "Fall asleep after sex? Or retire?"_

_"Retire."_

_Greg, though still leaning against Nick's chest, looked up at Nick as if trying to solve a puzzle. "Why wouldn't I?"_

_Nick just met Greg's face with a calm stare, willing the younger man to answer his own question. _

_Being his contrarian self, though, Greg only elaborated on his own point. "It's part of the circle of life."_

_"You mean the _cycle_ of life?"_

_Greg shrugged his shoulders. One barely missed knocking Nick's chin. "Whatever."_

_"Quite a scientist you are."_

_Greg shrugged again, this time whacking Nick's chin with his bony, but surprisingly muscular shoulder. "It's part of the cycle of life... for us. Work hard -- work crazy hours for far too long, then retire, relax for 20 or so years and then kick the bucket."_

_Nick cringed at Greg's debonair attitude toward "kicking the bucket." Death was a grisly thing._

_"What?" Greg looked up, this time genuinely surprised. He rolled off of Nick's chest, over to the small space between Nick and the edge of the bed, almost falling off entirely._

_Greg was rolled over Nick's body, the Texan's fingers gripping the younger man__, onto the other side of the bed, where there was more room._

_Nick shook his head, amused. Somehow, Greg _always _did that. He _always _ended up cuddling the wrong side of Nick's chest, and he _always _ended up almost rolling off the bed when he wanted to get up. _

_"Everyone dies, Nick."_

_Nick nodded._

_"And besides," Greg said, flashing Nick a 5-megawatt grin. "By the time I die, I'll have discovered whole new methods of DNA profiling." His face grew excited, like a mastermind planning his final scheme. "I'll have solved every age-old, mystery-surrounded mob plot._

_"Maybe I'll even run for office," he added thoughtfully._

_The two men burst into laughter simultaneously. After their experiences on the job -- Ecklie's persistent politicking, the refusal of LVPD to pay Nick's ransom, Greg's experience with the undersheriff, et al following the beating -- they knew that would never happen._

_"Either way," Greg said contentedly, "I'll have all of Vegas lining up at my funeral."_

_"Sure thing, Sherlock," Nick said, reaching up to pet Greg's hair again. "_You'_ll be the Las Vegan of the century. First little lab rat to achieve it, no doubt."_

_Greg chuckled and sighed, inching toward Nick again and leaning his head against Nick's shoulders._

_The younger man grew serious. "The one thing I know I want" -- he looked up into Nick's eyes -- "is someone sitting there crying for me. Someone who really loves me. Someone who will have to come home to an empty house and _miss _me. Who will really care that I'm gone."_

_Nick gazed elsewhere and forced a chuckle. "Good luck convincing Sara then, Greggo."_

_He pretended he didn't see the hurt look on Greg's face._

_"Someone who really _loves_ me... who's _in _love with me," Greg whispered softly._

_"Mmmhmm." Nick patted his friend's head. _

xxxxxxx

Nick knew which part of that conversation Greg had really meant. He knew Greg didn't really expect all of Vegas to line up at his funeral. But he knew which part Greg _had_ meant.

He wanted to die loved, but not just by his parents. As Greg had pointed out on one occasion, possibly in reference to Hodges, parents were supposed to love their kids. Earning a parent's love wasn't supposed to be a task, and it didn't say anything about someone if they had their parents' love. But the kind of love Greg was talking about -- being able to win the love of someone else -- was what Greg had wanted to leave with. He had wanted to know that he would die with that kind of love, as if that meant he had done something bigger -- had something bigger -- in his life.

Nick stared out the window. He couldn't control what had happened. He couldn't solve a problem when it had already been destroyed a month ago. But he could piece together the last pieces of Greg's wishes. He would piece together the last pieces of closure for Greg.

After a month, Nick was finally going. He was finally _doing_ something. He was finally going to be there. Everything was _right_ because he was following a path -- the only path he could find -- and he just _knew_ that it was the right one, and he _knew_ he was headed in the right direction, and that he would find Greg, and that the universe would be righted.

He couldn't hold back a smile. Everything just felt so right, so calm and at peace, yet so surreal. He was on his way.

_Every little thing is gonna be alright._

**

* * *

  
--TBC--**


	21. La Roca Se Funde

**DISCLAIMER & PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT:** While I do not own CSI and related entities, and while the story as a whole is fictional, 'los feminicidios' ARE real and their burden belongs to all people. Lenora (who you will meet in this chapter) is fictional, but, sadly, there are hundreds of mothers, as well as fathers, sisters, brothers, husbands, boyfriends and children (and probably wives and girlfriends) in Ciudad Juárez who face the same predicament and grief of losing loved ones to this vicious and ongoing tragedy.

According to Amnesty International, almost 400 women have been killed in the state of Chihuahua, and especially in Chihuahua's capital, Ciudad Juárez, since 1993. I would love it if you guys considered checking out Amnesty International's website and corresponding petitions for justice in Ciudad Juárez and Chihuahua. A link can be found on my profile page.

**WARNING:** Mentions of dark themes (though NOT graphic and/or explicit), brief mention of sex; aforementioned dark themes are in reference to a real and grave human rights catastrophe in Ciudad Juárez and Chihuahua, Mexico.

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** 'La Roca Se Funde' translates roughly to 'The Rock Melts.' The title is a reference to a Chapter 9 conversation between Catherine and Warrick, on the car ride back from Nick's. Catherine says that Warrick is the rock; it takes a lot to make him melt.

Unfortunately, in the process of reorganizing the story, this chapter became quite short.

Thanks to Appreciates_Fine_Labrats, Unity2008, HappyInHell, ASOTA, Marifw, Meg, Atticus, White_N_Nerdy, QueenOfTheUniverse, Evil_Genius_of_the_COCA and longas91, as well as one anonymous reader, for reviews on the last chapter, and to LaughableBlackStorm for beta. The second Warrick/Cath scene is unbeta'd because I rushed to put the whole chapter together, so all mistakes are mine. Special thanks to longas91 for her ongoing help with Spanish. Hopefully by the time I take my Spanish final next week, my Spanish will be looking a little better ;) (but it probably won't).

**In this chapter, **Catherine and Warrick try to figure out where they stand in the aftermath of the secret. In Ciudad Juárez, Wendy makes a new friend and she and Nick learn firsthand about the toll of 'los feminicidios.' Finally, they go to see the dead body found in Ciudad Juárez.

CHAPTER 21: LA ROCA SE FUNDE

It had been a silent ride back from the Bigsbys' house. It wasn't a good silence. Catherine didn't even bother to deflate the tension by reaching for the radio dial. She didn't know what little action it wcould take to set off the kind but betrayed man next to her.

She figured it was probably a good thing that his face was turned toward the road. Driving was, as she had often come to know, an excellent distracter from life's troubles.

Still, she knew the temperature had risen enough, and that there was no stopping the eruption. Warrick was the rock -- her rock -- and he did not melt easily. But that also meant that he didn't lose heat easily either, and the heat had been accumulating steadily over the last month. The last action, her betrayal, had added the last few degrees that brought Warrick to the precipice.

And now, she knew, the volcano would erupt, the lava would melt and nothing would quite be the same again.

He pulled the car into the Lab parking lot, and they sat in silence as Warrick stared hard at the steering wheel. She could tell he was about to speak.

"How could you not tell me, Cath?" The anger and hurt were barely contained in Warrick's voice, and it hurt worse than the silence.

"I'm sorry, Rick. I really am. I had to keep it a secret."

He sighed, and she could see the tears in his eyes. The poker face was down again, and not in a good way.

His voice was so calm, but it belied so much more.

"I- I've got something to say," he started. "Don't interrupt me."

She nodded.

He paused after every sentence, as if still trying to grasp it himself. "I trusted you, Catherine. After all this time -- all this time -- I've been trying to help Nicky, trying to help _everyone_, and it turns out I've been wrong about everything all along. I was wrong about what Nick's problem was. I didn't even know my _best friend_. _One_ of my best friends. And the other one lied to me.

"It -- I know I'm not normally big on talking about feelings... but I feel like the rug has just been pulled out from under me." He shook his head.

She loved how he was able to talk about his feelings, and it felt so wrong that she was so impressed by it at that moment, when she had ruined any chance she had with her colleague and friend, along with the years of trust that they had built up.

"I don't know what to think," he said quietly. "Why didn't you tell me?"

She gulped. "Greg asked me not to."

He looked up, surprised. "Why?"

It felt good to take down the charade, to be able to answer honestly. "I don't know."

"Did -- did I do something?"

She looked up surprised.

"Did I do something that made you, or Greg, think you couldn't trust me with knowing?" She could see his eyes tearing up. "Did I do something, or say something that made Greg think I would _hate _him for loving Nick?"

"I -- I don't know."

He nodded. "Did I do something that made _you_ not want to... trust me?"

She answered quickly. "Never."

Warrick nodded. She could tell he was torn in so many ways at the moment. "Good to know."

"Warrick --"

He turned to look at her and she met his eyes and prayed that he could see through her eyes, to see the genuine honesty in them.

"Where does this leave us?" she asked, as her emotions ran full.

"I don't know."

* * *

The woman at the front desk of the morgue looked Wendy and Nick over curiously, tutting quietly as she evaluated them.

"Wait your turn," she said simply.

It reminded Wendy of a doctor's office waiting room. Matching, simple cushioned chairs filled one small room. There were even magazines spread over two tables, and a television, which was apparently now set to a telenovela. Wendy tried out her limited Spanish to understand what was going on onscreen.

The biggest difference between the room and a doctor's office waiting room was the crying.

A terrified older woman clutched a man, who looked to be her husband. Tears streamed down the woman's face as her husband rocked her back and forth in his arms, whispering softly to her.

Wendy could make out the words exiting her lips, but not his. 'Mi cariña, mi cariña, mi cariña.' '_My baby, my baby, my baby.'_

Nearby, a younger woman, probably in her mid-twenties, sat silently, clutching a small wooden cross like her life depended on it. Wendy could hear her murmur softly, 'María, mi hermana.' '_María, my sister.'_

The younger woman seemed barely aware of the tiny toddler crawling over her lap and reaching for a breast. Without looking at the child, she gently pushed its head away. "Su madre irá ahora pronto. Ójala." _'Your mother will be here soon. I wish to God.'_

An older woman, countenance resolute and defiant, stood majestically against the wall. Salt-and-pepper hair blossomed down her neck and back. With her right hand, she clutched a slender young woman, who wore the same expression, around the shoulders. The young woman's dark brown hair shot down in ringlets barely past her shoulders. Her stance was stiff, and she appeared less than comfortable with the hand draped around her. When the door opened nearby, she dodged it artfully with practiced grace.

Wendy and Nick moved to sit down.

To Wendy's left, a youngish man, probably no older than Greg had been, sat in another chair, solitary in his grief and apprehension. He bit a lip timidly and stared out over the room before he made eye contact with Wendy.

She stared back into his sad eyes. The edges of his jet black hair appeared oily or moist, she couldn't tell which. Detecting the swelling around his eyes, she realized it was from tears already shed.

The staring continued. Rarely had she been stared at by a man for so long without any sign of malice or lust. But the emotions evident in his eyes were none but pure sorrow and fear. His eyes begged for empathy and understanding. Probably solace, though he seemed to know that that one wouldn't come.

On Wendy's right side, Nick sat in an almost identical pose to the unknown man. Greg's photo was clutched in his hands and Wendy could easily make out tear stains. It wasn't a photo she recognized, but that made sense. Nick and Greg had probably been friends outside of the Lab.

"¿Van para 'los feminicidios'?"

Wendy hadn't noticed when the man to her left moved. The older woman with long grey hair had now moved to sit next to her. The young woman she'd been with seemed to have disappeared out the door, or into some other room.

"¿'Los feminicidios'?" Wendy clucked out awkwardly. Her Spanish was not at its best.

The woman chuckled. "Me llama Lenora." She smiled at Wendy. "That means my name is Lenora." Her accent was barely distinguishable. "I can see you're American," Lenora asked, though it wasn't quite a question.

"Yes. My friend and I are here to try and identify a body."

"Ah," the woman said, glancing up. "So are most."

Wendy turned to point to the photo, to show Lenora the infectious smile that the two CSIs were missing, but it was clutched too tightly in Nick's hands.

"No need. I understand." Lenora's smile was mirthful and Wendy could guess that she'd had quite a bit of experience traversing this room.

"What brings you here?"

"So many things," the woman replied enigmatically. "But most of all Flor."

"Flor?"

"My daughter. My flower. That is what Flor means, by the way."

Wendy nodded. "My Spanish isn't terribly good."

"I noticed," Lenora remarked wryly.

"Does your daughter work here?" Wendy asked, curious.

"No," Lenora replied with a sigh as she shuffled, almost uncomfortably, forward in her seat. "I'm waiting to find her. I come back today, and tomorrow, and yesterday. Every day since she left me. I know she'll be here eventually."

Wendy wasn't quite sure how to respond. "I -- I'm sorry."

Lenora nodded. "Such is life here in Juárez. Flor will not be the first or last girl to disappear in Ciudad Juárez. But she is still _my_ girl. _My_ Flor." She paused, as if reflecting on something. "She would be about your age, if my Flor were alive today. She was beautiful."

Lenora took out a photograph from her pocket in a practiced gesture. It seemed the pocket on her dress was fit to the photo, or vice versa, and Wendy guessed that she'd pulled it out on many, many days.

On it was a young woman, probably in her mid-20s. The girl had a wide smile and almost-full lips. She had a mousy look, but a beautiful smile -- the kind that would have been contagious in any other circumstances. On paper her smile only seemed to elicit the tears. Hers was a haunting, but, paradoxically, jubilant beauty. Wendy could see the resemblance to the woman next to her. Flor was built like Lenora – big-boned and busty. And even in a worn photograph, Flor conveyed the same warmth.

"She's beautiful," Wendy said softly. "I'm sorry for your loss."

Lenora nodded slowly, rhythmically. "My loss gives me reason," she said. "It gives me purpose."

"We see a lot of loss in our jobs, Nick and I." She gestured at Nick, who was still staring at the photo clutched tightly in his hands. "It -- it's always good to see how losses like yours can help people do more."

"What job have you?" Lenora asked, curiosity piqued.

"We work for the police department."

"Police?"

"Not quite. We investigate the scene, or that's our primary job. The police deal more with people. We deal more with evidence and science."

Lenora's face broke out into another warm smile. "Ah! CSIs, yes?"

"Yes," Wendy replied, slightly surprised that the woman even understood their jobs.

"Ah," Lenora said, still smiling. "Your job is little like our -- our_s_. We investigate el maquilador, a local factory -- one where bodies more likely to appear.

"We do not have the same tools as you. No _fingerprint matcher_ or _DNA_," she said with a slight huff and a small laugh at the assumed tool names. "But we do our best."

Wendy nodded.

A door opened from the office itself and a slender young woman stuck her head out. Her eyes met Lenora's immediately, though her head remained down, as if trying to avoid notice from others in the room.

"Ah, Nicola," Lenora said. "No tenemos suerte."

The girl shook her head, and Lenora took it in with acquiescence.

She turned to Wendy. "Buenos suerte. And nice to meet you." She pulled out a business card. The gesture seemed less practiced this time, and the cards fit her pocket less. "If any of you... _CSIs_... or anyone else from LVPD... is ever interested in helping with my task -- _our_ task -- that is, to find and help with 'los feminicidios', please do. We always want help."

Wendy nodded. She wished she could. "Thank you. Nice to meet you."

Lenora smiled back. "Y tú también.

"We must go then," she remarked as she trotted toward the door. The girl followed, head still pointed down. "Vaminos."

As the door shut, Wendy felt her lack of sleep from the long car ride catching up with her. She leaned her head against the back of the chair and tried to dream of happier things.

* * *

A shriek woke Wendy. She opened her eyes and looked around, startled. The occupants of the waiting room had largely changed. The new occupants either looked up with spooky eyes, or shielded their eyes from the sad display.

That was when she found the source of the shriek. The man who had been sitting across from Wendy emerged from the door separating the waiting room from the rest of the morgue. His wail was frightening. She hadn't noticed the young child in his arms before. The girl looked to be two or three years old.

The man sobbed loudly into the girl's shiny black hair. "Mi amor," he sobbed. "¿Donde estas? Te necesito, mi amor. Te necesit_amos_." _My love. Where are you? I need you, my love. _We_ need you._

He turned around to face the woman at the front desk. "Encontrela. Find her. Please. Please find my Ana."

"I am sorry, Señor García. We try. But there are too many. And we are just a morgue. We can only do something for the bodies that come in. We have not the resources to find other bodies."

He seemed incapable of looking the receptionist in the face. "Lo comprendo." _I understand._

He turned around and slowly lumbered out the door, clutching the toddler fiercely.

"Mr. Stokes?" the receptionist called out to the room. Nick somehow still had his eyes open. He had barely driven and had slept through much of the car ride. It made Wendy jealous.

He got up slowly. "That's me." His voice was confident. Nick seemed more sure of himself than he had in the last month. The receptionist nodded to the door and Nick smoothly strutted over. Wendy pried herself out of her chair and followed. Nick didn't seem to mind.

* * *

Catherine didn't realize she'd fallen asleep until a knock at the door woke her.

She groaned, rubbing her eyes. _Up and rolling again_.

She trudged over to the door slowly, secretly hoping that whoever it was would just go away in the time it took her to get there. She didn't feel like dealing with solicitors, or neighbors or friends for that matter.

She looked through the peephole to find familiar turquoise eyes staring right at her. Warrick knew her too well.

She panicked for a second, wondering if it would be bad news he'd come to deliver. But she still had to open the door. Catherine Willows was not one to shrink away from problems.

She opened the door wordlessly and he walked slowly in, head down and averting her gaze, almost sheepishly.

She cleared her throat. "So..."

He seemed to understand the look in her eye, and left an apologetic glance lingering in the air before he began speaking.

She knew Warrick well enough to know that he wouldn't skirt around the issue, at least not with her. On tough stuff, with people close to him, he cut straight to the chase. So it would only be a matter of minutes before she knew -- break or forgive.

"We've been working together for a long time," he began.

She nodded. She couldn't help the familiar process of numbing herself to the impending cold -- preparing herself for the rejection and the betrayed look in Warrick's eyes so that it wouldn't hurt so much.

"I've trusted you," he continued, clearly struggling over his words. She got the feeling that he had rehearsed them in his head multiple times before coming over. Few people seemed aware of how much effort and thought went into what Warrick said.

She nodded again as she felt the invisible and worn-in shield go up.

"I've always trusted your judgment and your loyalty. You've always been a good friend." He looked up, presumably to check her reaction.

She nodded slowly at him, giving him the go ahead to continue speaking. She could handle whatever it was he said. Her defenses were up. She was more than used to hard news, and she would weather it and poke at the right pieces of her mind to let it sink in in the right way, so that she could still sleep at night and go forward. She knew how to handle her own reactions to struggles, and troubles, and heartbreak. She was used to it. Catherine Willows was a woman who had weathered many, many storms in her lifetime, and she knew by now how to protect her heart from the strongest flurries of emotion.

"You've always been a good friend," he repeated. She could see his poker face wavering. "You've always been there for me." He paused. "While I'm hurt that you didn't tell me, I still trust you. You've been there for me for so long -- and for the entire team. Your intentions have always seemed... solid. I still trust you.

Then he laughed, and Catherine didn't understand why. He seemed to catch her expression, and quickly turned his smile into a look of remorse. "We're trained to follow the evidence," he said. "And the evidence tells me that for over ten years you've been a good friend to me. That you've never betrayed me."

He gulped slowly before inhaling deeply and looking her dead in the eye. He spoke slowly -- even slowly for him. "I may not know -- I may not understand why you didn't tell me, but I know your intentions were good. You're a good person, and a good friend, and it would be... stupid -- and unfair -- of me to ignore that and throw away years of trust and friendship just because of one decision I didn't quite understand."

Catherine gulped back a sigh of relief and cautiously began to let down her own shield. It was alright.

* * *

_This is it_, Nick thought as he pushed forward down the hallway. He passed more shelving filled with bodies. He was used to it.

He was ready. He felt full and ready. _Closure_. _This is what it looks like._ He felt stronger and steadier than he had in forever. Everything would be alright -- or at least as close to alright as it had been in quite some time -- once he got in there.

_So close_.

A mortician -- or whatever he was -- led Nick through rooms, finally settling on yet another metal shelf-filled one. The man glanced down at a sheet of paper filled with numbers and notes keeping track of which bodies were which, and the numbers of the too many Jane and John Does.

He finally stopped in front of a square metal shelf.

_John Doe #76_

Nick stared at the square. He had opened similar shelves so many times, or watched Doc Robbins or SuperDave do so. But this one was different.

He could finally relate to the countless family members he had guided through the process. But this one was different.

Still, he was ready. He'd had a month to _get_ ready. So now Greg got closure.

"Go ahead," he said, raising his voice so that it came out as more than the whisper it had started as in the back of his throat.

The drawer crept open, and Nick could hear the sliding drawer brush against other rusty metal. It creaked. A thin blanket covered the body and sent a ghost howling down into Nick's stomach.

_He must be so cold_.

Even through the blanket, he could see the blood. But he couldn't make out a face.

"G-go ahead," he said, and this time it came out as the stuttering whisper.

The man pulled back the linen blanket.

Nick wasn't sure what surprised him more -- that the face wasn't Greg's, or just how familiar the face _was_. He'd recognize those cruel eyes anywhere, even if the rest of the face hadn't been visible before.

"Tha-- I know him." Nick could feel his voice coming back quickly. "He robbed the Tangiers. He helped kill Greg."

* * *

AUTHOR'S NOTE: There were questions in the last chapter about Catherine and Warrick's visit to Biggs and, specifically, why, if they can find Biggs, he isn't under arrest. I can totally understand that quandary, and I had issues with it too at first. My explanation is that there was, technically, no evidence left behind at the casino heist, since the robbers made Cath, Nick and Greg clean up the entire scene. The robbers remained masked the entire time, so Catherine is relying entirely on her own conversations with the robbers. The only proof Catherine has that Sam Bigsby was involved is that she heard him called 'Biggs' and that she knows, roughly, how he is built. The CSIs know that they don't have anything that would really stand up in court, and that the Feds have officially dropped the investigation.

As to Warrick's forgiveness, I couldn't really see him doing anything else. He just seems like too forgiving of a guy. For evidence, look to Redrum, when Cath uses reverse forensics behind the backs of the entire team. Nick is furious, but it's Warrick who knows to let it go. I get the feeling that he trusts Catherine inherently, and that he is, in general, one of the most trusting characters (probably along with Greg), at least when it comes to the people he's close to.

Props to everyone who figured out that the body was one of the robbers'.

So who is the dead man in the morgue? And how does Nick know who he is? We'll find out next chapter. Also, someone in this chapter seems a bit suspicious. Who is now not telling the whole story? Guess away ;)

Please review!

;)

Harper


	22. Las Palabras Aprendidas, Part 1

**DISCLAIMERS: **If I owned any related entities, Nick and Greg would have found different uses for their new office. Okay, not really. I'm actually liking the lack of canon relationships on the show because it allows all shippers, no matter how obscure the ship, to find moments for their ship. But I can assure you that, if I owned it, Nick and Greg would go back to flirting (and Greg would probably go back to flirting with everybody, but Nick would still flirt back more), and Warrick and Cath would get a lot more of those almost-steamy moments. You Yo!Bling shippers know what I'm talkin' about. Also, SuperDave and Wendy would have been upgraded to series regulars by now. Anyone who goes on TalkCSI probably knows what I'm talking about here. Every episode descrip this season seems to list Liz Vassey and David Berman as series regulars, yet, when the credits pop up, they're not there. Tsk tsk, TPTB.

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **Well, I finished my finals this week, but, alack, wasn't as on top of this story. As a result, I forgot to send parts of this chapter and the next off to LaughableBlackStorm for beta. Nonetheless, knowing I promised weekly updates, I realized I really ought to post this anyways. So, if you see any grammar/spelling mistakes in the first two scenes here, know that they are all my fault. The rest of the scenes are beta'd. If you see any error of any sort, please let me know in your review. Also, one of the finals I just took was my Spanish final, so let's hope my Spanish has improved. And yet, somehow, I have a feeling that the chapter title isn't even grammatically correct. On that note, major props and thanks to Longas91 for Spanish corrections on previous chapters.

Thanks to Appreciates_Fine_Labrats, Atticus, ASOTA, YuugisGirl, YoshiCat, QueenOfTheUniverse, TuppenceCat, Longas91, LostLadyKnight and kyleodss for reviews on the last chapter ;)

To kyleodss's review, I'm sorry if you're finding the story dull so far. I wasn't quite clear from your review whether it was the last chapter or the story as a whole that you found boring. In general, I prefer to reply to comments like yours via PM, so it would be appreciated if you could, if you review further chapters, either log in or leave some sort of contact info. I use constructive criticism to improve the story, and I can't quite tell what to improve if you don't tell me. If it was the previous chapter that you found dull, all I can say is that, while it was definitely one of the slowest chapters in the story, it was also a very important part of the story. If you (or anyone else) has any suggestions as to how to make such a chapter more action-packed/interesting without sacrificing the chapter's content, I'd love to hear it. As it stands, pretty much every chapter in this story (with the possible exception of the Grissom chapter) is designed to move the story forward in all necessary directions, including characters' personal development and the progress of the investigations. At the same time, however, I try to keep the characters in-character and the plot at least somewhat believable. This means that not every chapter can have major action (as most readers have probably noticed by now), but there will still be action in the future.

I just realized that this is one of my first two-part chapters in quite a while -pats self on back-. This one, however, had to be a two-parter. You'll probably understand why once you've read both. I do, however, promise that each chapter will be enjoyable and make sense on its own. And you should also review each chapter -nudge- **Anyways**, the next two chapters are, in my opinion, two of, if not the, most important chapters in the story, at least so far. They are more action-packed, and each of the main characters makes a major development. There is somewhat more disturbing subject matter in them, though I don't think it's any more grotesque than anything in the first 13 chapters. That said, be prepared for characters to be less than honest. The chapter title translates to (or at least is supposed to translate to) 'Acquired Words.'

* * *

**CHAPTER 22: LAS PALABRAS APRENDIDAS, PART 1**

Warrick ambled back into the small bedroom that Grissom had cleared for him. The house was almost always empty, as all three of its inhabitants had been all but living at the Lab. He couldn't quite tell what was going on with Grissom and Sara, and, to be honest, he didn't think he wanted to know. He just couldn't deal with more people's problems.

He was surprised when a pajama-clad Grissom appeared from the master bedroom yawning. Warrick couldn't quite tell if it was a sleepy crust or dried tears in Grissom's eyes, and he wasn't going to ask. Grissom was the last person who would talk about emotions and Warrick himself was emotionally exhausted. The next minutes, he knew, would pass easily because Grissom was just as emotionally detached as Warrick, or at least as Tina insisted Warrick was. Warrick took the truth of her judgment as fact, since he didn't really care, and he hadn't really felt like arguing.

He was somewhat surprised when Grissom joined him on the couch.

"I'd like to talk to you," Grissom started.

"Okay." Warrick leaned back on the couch and stretched out his legs. "What's up, bugman?"

Grissom chuckled. "You got that from Catherine."

Warrick wrinkled his brows. He hadn't quite thought about that. "I guess I did."

"Well, that's a perfect segue to my next comment."

_Of course it is._ Warrick rolled his eyes.

"You and Catherine seem to have been getting closer," Grissom noted.

"Is that your observation or Sara's?" Warrick didn't mean to say it sharply, and was relieved when Grissom wasn't offended.

"Mine, actually," Grissom replied thoughtfully.

Then again, thoughtfully was the only way he _did_ reply, or do anything for that matter. Except with that make-out session. Warrick reprimanded his mind for going to that.

"How is she?" Grissom asked. Grissom didn't look at Warrick when he spoke, which wasn't surprising as emotionally laden personal conversations didn't seem to make Grissom terribly comfortable, which was quite an understatement.

"Catherine or Sara?"

"Catherine."

Warrick furrowed his brow. "Um... she's alright, I guess."

"She seems exhausted."

"You picked up on that?" _As in, not Sara?_

Grissom nodded.

Warrick thought harder. Catherine did seem tired -- very tired. She had been working lots of double shifts. And then Tam. And then her own life. He remembered the look of her eyes in the last conversation. It _was_ exhaustion.

Grissom cleared his throat. "Remember that she was at the casino too. She saw what happened."

Warrick nodded.

"I've known Catherine for a very long time," Grissom began. "She's had a lot of difficult things occur in her life. I know some people say she's self-centered, but I think they'd find -- I think you already _know_ -- that she is, in fact, a very good and loyal friend. She's not centered around _herself_, but around everyone close to herself. Sometimes she meddles and pushes the rules, but it's always to help the people who matter to her."

Warrick chuckled uncomfortably. "Where is this coming from, Grissom? Are you about to propose to Catherine?"

Grissom laughed back at the comment. "No. I've heard the rumors -- _believe_ me, I have -- but Cath and I aren't... in any situation of or relating to that nature."

"I know that, boss. I was just yankin' your chain."

"Of course you were."

Suddenly, the tense mood seemed to defuse.

Grissom began speaking again. "Catherine has a knack for hiding things -- hiding how much things affect her. But I'm sure you can tell how much that night affected her." He laughed, almost nervously. "If _I_ can, then you definitely should be able to."

Warrick nodded.

"I think we already know that helping people through this sort of thing isn't exactly my specialty."

Warrick nodded in agreement.

"When Nick got buried, it was Catherine that was there for him. That's how we've always worked. It's always been Catherine to help everyone else through the trauma."

Warrick nodded slowly as the words sunk in.

"The problem is that someone has to be there for her."

"I get what you're sayin,' boss."

"I'm glad you do."

"But one thing -- aren't you against interwork relationships?"

Grissom chuckled. "I used to be. But _somebody_ told me I lost that right."

"_That_ would be Sara."

"Yes. Yes it would."

* * *

The next few days had been busy for Catherine -- sadly too busy to do anything more on Tam Jared's case. Wendy, who really was a valuable asset to the team despite her nonexistent rank, was gone for the week, along with Nick, and Sara, having just returned, was not quite up to her A-game yet.

All in all, the result was one exhausted Willows shuffling between crime scenes, the Lab and, on occasion, home.

It was a good thing that Lindsey was so independent and resilient. Catherine knew that she didn't give her daughter enough credit. Being 16 wasn't easy.

Catherine was relieved that Warrick had a case far away -- though forgiven, she still didn't know quite where they stood.

Catherine didn't know which way was up, and she certainly had no idea what to do next. She was used to handling crises, and she knew she'd figure it out eventually. Her shift had ended an hour ago and, for once, she wasn't going for overtime. She went straight home.

So, an hour later, she sat, lining up the facts and pieces of the Ari Marvin puzzle on her evidence table at home.

_Ring- engagement ring for Tam. Found in the pocket of Ari's coat._

_Autopsy- fudged. The bullet to the head, not the one to the chest, killed him._

_Photos- verify that autopsy was fudged_

_Black cotton jacket- listed as Ari's; blood smears on arms of coat, with a prominent smudge on the lower right sleeve_

_9 millimeter gun, registered to Ari Marvin_

It was all of the evidence that she had left. She couldn't match anything. She didn't have a scene, and she didn't have a body. And all the witnesses that she knew of had probably lied.

She couldn't recreate the scene, and the body...

The body. She could still look up the body. She remembered that Tam had definitely been well enbalmed, by the best. His body was probably still relatively preserved.

It sickened her to think of digging up his body, but for closure... Not just closure for Greg, but for Tam as well, since it now looked like something was off about his death, as it was reported.

She needed the body.

_Oh, for the joy of having connections. _

She searched her old address book for Bruce Jared's home number.

"What do you want?!"

The agitation in his voice caught Catherine off-guard.

She took a deep breath and spoke slowly, hoping to calm the man. "I was just hoping to talk, Mr. Jared."

"And the photos? Those were just to convince me to talk?"

"Photos..." Catherine was rather surprised. Her best guess was the photos of Tam's body that she and Warrick had studied, with Archie and SuperDave's help. But she didn't think that word of those would have gotten out, nor that, had word gotten out, the photos would really have been any real trouble for Mr. Jared. All in all, she was confused, and opted for getting the full story out without bringing up her own work.

"I'm not sure which photos you're talking about, Mr. Jared."

"Wait, you didn't send those -- never mind." He cut off. "What -- what is it -- and who is this?"

"This is Catherine Willows."

"I knew your voice sounded familiar."

Catherine shook her head. Whatever his talk of photos was, he must have just been thinking of some new scandal -- the type any big Vegas businessman would have to worry about. The potential for scandals coming out of his casinos was huge. It could be anything, she reassured herself. Sex, drugs, and everything above and beyond the two.

"What is it you want, Catherine? My caller ID said you're calling from LVPD."

"Yes, that I am."

"Is there something going on? Are you in trouble?"

She was taken slightly aback at his concern. "Mr. Jared, I _work_ for LVPD."

He chuckled with what seemed to be relief. "Why of course you do. I guess, by now, I'm just so used to everyone around me gettin' in that sort of trouble."

A dim, mourning light went off in the back of Catherine's mind as she realized how much sense that made after the death of Bruce Jared's only son. Of course he hadn't gotten over the death. Some days it still felt like yesterday to _Catherine_ that she had seen Tam's bloody body; she couldn't try to understand how deep the wound ran for Tam's father. If something happened to Lindsey, Catherine knew it would haunt her for the rest of her life.

"I was actually wondering about something else." It was going to be a hard question to ask, she knew. Almost as hard as breaking the news to Nick about the investigation being called off had been.

"I'm in the process of investigating something. I need your cooperation about it."

"Okay. I need to hear more about what _it_ is first."

She took a deep breath. "One of my colleagues and I have been pursuing a top-secret investigation. And we have reason to believe that some of the evidence is buried with Tam."

"B-buried?"

"We need to exhume his body."

The response was immediate and reproachful -- almost indignant. "No! Most definitely not."

"Mr. Jared, you have to understand --"

"NO! There's no understanding."

"Mr. Jared!" She found the authority in her voice to try to restrain the man's vehement denials. "If you would just listen to what I have to say..."

He didn't respond, but she didn't hear the phone click off either. She had been hoping that she wouldn't need to tell him more about the investigation, but it seemed that it would be necessary.

"Mr. Jared. You remember the casino heist? The one that took place about six weeks ago?" She knew there was no way he could forget, not as a savvy businessman, nor as a citizen of Las Vegas, and certainly not as the owner of the robbed casino. The heist had been plastered all over Vegas news.

"Of course."

"I was there. I watched my colleague die there." She figured she was best off appealing to his sympathies, and maybe even guilt. "Three of us were _forced_ to be there, despite lacking the appropriate number of cops watching, because you put a rush on the case. Because your people pulled a few strings."

"I'm sorry Catherine. I'm sorry you and your colleagues were placed in that situation."

She could hear the genuine remorse and sympathy in his voice.

"Thank you." She cleared her throat. _Here comes the hard part -- or at least the _next_ hard part._ "We have reason to believe that Ari Marvin was involved in the heist."

"Ari?" His voice showed more resignation than surprise. She wondered just how much of the FBI report he was savvy to.

"Yes."

"What led you to that conclusion?"

"I saw him there."

"I thought they wore masks?"

"I saw his eyes. I heard him speak. I _knew_ him, Mr. Jared. He was my _friend_, at least before what happened to Tam."

Mr. Jared's voice grew sharp. "He was the man that took my boy away. Are we done?"

"Ari said he did it -- robbed the casino and killed my colleague, Greg Sanders -- 'for Tam.'"

She could hear a sarcastic snort on the other line. "Ari Marvin was always misguided about what was _for_ Tam."

"I'm sorry to break it to you, Mr. Jared, but Ari and Tam _were_ together. They were a couple. Your son _was_ gay."

"No he wasn't!"

"Mr. Jared, I've seen them kiss." She decided not to mention the other things she'd seen them almost doing, right before they or she switched rooms, on multiple occasions.

He snorted again. "Ari forced him."

"Tam was a willing participant."

"You don't know what you're talking about."

"Mr. Jared --"

"Fine, maybe he liked Ari. But only Ari. It was a one-time thing. Ari _confused_ him. If it weren't for Ari, he would have been straight," he said with a harrumph.

"Mr. Jared, Tam came out of the closet to me when he was thirteen years old, long before he met Ari."

Mr. Jared sighed angrily. "Stop insulting my son."

"I'm not trying to insult him, Mr. Jared. He was a loving boy -- a loving man. His love for Ari was pure and good. And being gay isn't _insulting_. I have two -- err, now one very good friend who is one of the best people I have ever known --"

"But Tam --"

"But that's not my point," she declared before he could get in more than two words edgewise. "Ari _said_ he did it for Tam. If you don't want to know more about Tam, fine. I really do understand why you wouldn't want that, speaking as a parent. I am _truly_ sorry for your loss. But at the Crime Lab, we now have our own loss. Greg Sanders was family to us, and he deserves closure. The entire Crime Lab deserves closure. We have a lot of people hurting because of his death." _Nick._

"I'm sorry, Catherine. I really am. But I can't allow you to do that." She could sense the finality in his voice, and knew the battle was lost.

"Fine," she said bitterly. "If that's what we get for trying to help _your _casino. I've got to go now."

She knew the concluding comment was unnecessary, but it was just too hard to resist.

"Bastard," she muttered into the phone once she heard the dial tone.

* * *

Wendy looked down at the body. It didn't look familiar. The body _did_ match the description, though. Nondescript. Male. Caucasian. She couldn't see much of his build, but it seemed safe to assume that he fit the category of 'average height.' He had light brown hair, though it was much shorter than Greg's; it was closer to a buzz cut. And he was holding a handkerchief.

_OTJ_

Owen Thomas Jared. The boy one of the robbers -- an Ariel Marvin -- had originally been sent to prison for killing.

"Is this Ariel Marvin?" Wendy asked.

"I don't think so," Nick replied. "I think Ari had blue eyes."

Wendy nodded. "Could be contacts."

"They would have taken out the contacts."

"Okay."

He reached for the handkerchief, but Mr. Perez laid a hand over Nick's, to stop him.

"You can't take that. It's evidence."

Wendy almost laughed at the strange case of déjà vu. She _knew_ she'd heard Brass and the CSIs say the same thing to persons of interest and family members countless times while she watched investigations and interrogations.

Nick glared at Perez, but the man held firm.

"Don't think you can intimidate me. I deal with drug dealers and a lot scarier people than you on a regular basis. You can't scare me into letting you contaminate evidence. Our job is to get justice for these people."

Nick glared again, and Wendy took a step back to watch. She wasn't even going to try to get in Nick's way right now.

Nick reached deep into his pocket and pulled out his LVPD badge.

Mr. Perez's eyes widened. "Oh, no no no no no. You Americans. You think you can bully everyone else? Your badge doesn't mean anything in this morgue, and it definitely doesn't mean you can take away our evidence. I thought you were _family_, coming here to identify a --"

"He's my boyfriend."

Mr. Perez paused and opened his mouth briefly, gagging like a fish. But he quickly closed it. "Him?" He raised an eyebrow and pointed at the body. "You just said 'it isn't him' when you saw the body. That would lead me to believe that he's _not_ who you're looking for." The man crossed his arms, almost smugly.

"Not him," Nick backtracked. "The person we're looking for." He took out the photo of Greg again. "This guy was one of the people that killed my boyfriend."

Mr. Perez shook his head. "Nice try. Now out of my morgue. Stupid Americans."

Nick looked angry, but resolute as they exited the morgue.

"Wait," Wendy said as they opened the front door out to the parking lot. "I have an idea."

Nick studied her.

"I know who to contact. You have your cell phone?"

Nick nodded. Wendy pulled out a small business card and began to dial. "Hello? Mrs. Hernandez?"

"_Oh, you can call me Lenora, dear."_

Wendy smiled. "_Lenora_, thank you. I was wondering if you'd be willing to help a friend and I. We're trying to get something from the morgue. It's evidence that would help us find our friend."

It was a long shot if she ever heard one. Why would this woman just _help_ them? She had no reason to trust them. All she knew of them was that they were CSIs. Wendy was surprised that she even knew what CSIs were.

Nonetheless, a half hour later, they found themselves met in front of the morgue by the same kindly middle-aged woman. She had the same resolute but warm expression on her face.

She emerged within twenty minutes, holding the handkerchief. She kissed Wendy on the cheek and smiled. "Good luck. And he was found at the old maquilador on Paloma."

"Thanks," Wendy replied with a grin. "Thank you so much."

"No hay de que, querida." _It was nothing, dear._

The slightly plump, middle-aged woman with a wide smile confused Wendy more than a little. But she was undeniably sweet, and seemed quite smart on top of that. And, most importantly, for whatever reason she'd chosen, Lenora was on their side.

"So where to next?" Wendy asked briskly. She was very happy with their sudden burst of good fortune, thanks in large part to her own friend-making skills.

"El maquilador."

* * *

The factory was dark. It was clear that it had been abandoned. Wendy told him that it was generally just called 'el maquilador viejo' -- _the old factory_. He wasn't quite sure what people used to produce there, but he didn't really care either. He just wanted evidence.

He walked in carefully, reaching his foot far forward and testing out the ground in front of him with each step, to avoid falling through anything or stepping on anything unfortunate. Apparently, dead bodies had a tendency of popping up in 'el maquilador viejo,' Wendy had also told him. It was a popular dump site for 'los feminicidios,' as the epidemic of murdered women in Juárez was called. _Las muertas de Juarez._

The room was more the size of an auditorium than a regular bedroom or such, and he could make out various doors and hallways leading out of it, along with an open staircase up to a ramp looking over the room.

Once Nick had his bearings of the room, he began to flicker his flashlight around.

Wendy did the same, following his lead.

"I got something!" she yelled from the other side of the room.

He rushed over. Seeing her bent down and staring at something on the floor, he joined her and knelt down.

"Definitely looks like blood," she said.

He nodded and started to open his kit.

"I've got it," she said. Hers was already open. He could tell, even in the dim light provided by their flashlights, that it was Sara's old kit. He remembered how Greg had borrowed it on occasion, following her departure. Somehow Sara had ended up with the nicest kit. Greg, as he had put it, had instead ended up with the 'most broken one.' Only Greg really knew how to use his kit without it falling apart, and on high priority cases, when optimal efficiency was necessary, he'd almost always borrowed Sara's, at least after she'd left for Frisco. Nick laughed at the memory in his head, but quickly turned his thoughts away from Greg.

Wendy glanced up at him. "Positive for blood."

Nick nodded. "How fresh do ya think it looks?" He hadn't been trying very hard to help mentor the newest recruit, but now seemed like a time to start, especially after the sacrifices she was making to help him.

"I'd say it's from the last week," she said. Nick nodded. "I can send it to Hodges, along with any trace we find, when we're done here."

Nick looked up, startled. "I don't think it's a good idea to get other people involved. I really was serious when I said I had to keep this cuddy."

"Cuddy?" Wendy looked up with an amused grin. "You say cuddy?"

Nick was taken slightly off guard by the question. "Why wouldn't I?"

"Based on my understanding of linguistics, mostly garnered from Ronnie, the handwriting guy -- apparently he's big on linguistics also -- and on my experience with college friends from different parts of the country, I've come to understand that the word that'cuddy' is really only used by people from California. And you, my friend, are definitely not from California."

Nick chuckled, realizing that Greg was right.

_I _told_ you you'd pick up my lingo, _he could imagine some paradoxically alive Greg telling him, somewhere in the back of his mind.

"I guess I hang out with too many Californians," Nick said with a chuckle of his own. He had a feeling he would be hanging out with his favorite Californian, in heaven or wherever it was they'd end up, soon enough.

_I've _got _to keep my mind off of that! _he chastised himself.

Nick leaned over to check for a blood trail leading from the drops.

"I already beat you to that," Wendy said with a smile, again. "Judging by the splatter, I'd say whoever's blood this belongs to was beaten here."

She brought her flashlight up to point out a series of similar smudges within a rectangular area, about the size and shape of a person's torso. "And, based on the extended blood splatter, I'd say they laid down for a _very_ long time after the beating."

Nick nodded. Anxiety he didn't even know he had disappeared in his stomach. The blood couldn't be Greg's because Greg was killed at the casino. _He wouldn't have enough moving blood to bleed out here. He couldn't have been _alive_ here._

"What other evidence ya got?" he asked. Wendy began to swab around, looking for fingerprints or such.

Light trickled across the floor with, paradoxically, both caution and expedience, and Nick saw Wendy's flashlight flicker over something shiny.

Nick moved his own flashlight onto the spot, and found it: a gun.

Wendy moved closer. "Hold the flashlight steady," she ordered Nick, while she reached in her kit for a camera.

After taking a few pictures of the gun on the ground, she picked it up and studied it, moving toward Nick so he could see as well.

"Have you ever seen anything like it?"

Nick stared closely, trying to figure out why the gun looked familiar. It was shorter than the average pistol -- screw that, it wasn't a pistol, but a revolver. It had a decidedly short frame, and it was made of aluminum.

"It's a snub-nosed revolver," Nick said in wonderment. "They don't make these things anymore." He chuckled, remembering when he'd learned that. "Greg was researching these for his book." He wished he could remember _why_ Greg was researching them. "He said they don't make 'em anymore because the semi-automatic worked better."

He turned the revolver over. There was some other reason it looked familiar...

"Ari used this in the robbery!"

"Good find." Nick and Wendy both jumped at the unfamiliar voice.

"It's not loaded. Just in case you were wondering," the voice said, chuckling cruelly.

"Who -- what --" Wendy stuttered out.

"Wh-Who are you?" Nick asked, with more confidence than Wendy. He'd been through enough testy situations, especially those involving a gun pointed at his face, but the element of surprise here particularly scared him.

Nick began to move his hand slowly down to his gun holster.

Suddenly, the man's gun was, as they could see through the shadows, pointed at both of them. The man moved out of the shadows enough for Nick to make out a vague silhouette of his would-be assailant -- the man was thin, and safely over six feet.

"Don't think about it."

Nick relented, and dropped his hand.

"Who are you?" he repeated.

"Someone you've met before," the man replied. His response was smooth, but Nick could detect a hint of aggravation, almost as if the man was offended that Nick hadn't recognized his voice immediately.

It all made a little more sense now. "You're one of the robbers," Nick said calmly.

"Good guess."

"Then it's a _correct_ guess?"

The man laughed. "You think I'm going to give anything away _that _easily?"

Nick gritted his teeth in frustration. "What do you want?"

"What do _you_ want?"

Nick growled. "Answer my question."

The man chuckled dryly. "You think this is a school game?"

"Huh?"

"Where I _have_ to answer because you asked first?"

Nick glared. "I _did_ ask first."

"You sound like a petulant child."

Nick's nostrils flared in anger. He could only control his spiraling emotions for so long. "What do you want?"

"Again, this isn't a game, nor is it school, nor is it supposed to be fair." The man held up his gun. "It doesn't matter who asked first. What matters is that I'm the one holding the gun. So let _me_ repeat: Why are you here?"

"To find Greg's body."

The man sighed. "Ari thought you would be doing that. Apparently, I'll be the one losing that bet."

Nick wasn't sure how to react to that -- that Ari had been _expecting_ him to come looking for Greg's body, let alone to come to the right place.

"Why would Ari think that?"

The man shook his head contemplatively, almost dismissively. "I _still_ don't understand. He had someone special in his life. And _he_ would go to all lengths for _them_. But I don't see why he expected the same of _you_. _Greggo_" -- he said Greg's name with a sneer -- "didn't seem too important to you."

Nick was shocked. "Wha-- Where did you get that?!"

"From talking to him," the man replied nonchalantly.

"Talking? -- What? When would you --?"

"You really didn't connect the dots, did you?"

"What do you mean?" Nick didn't realize he could _grow_ more frustrated.

"Didn't realize how gullible you were."

"WHAT DO YOU MEAN?"

"That bullet didn't kill Greg."

Nick stepped back, shocked. "Wha- what? You mean he's still alive?" He felt a sliver of hope blooming and couldn't quite comprehend the words.

But the man just laughed. "No. He's dead alright. Just not the way you think. Ari realized that, if we were going to dispose of the body elsewhere, and we had to carry it with us as a result, we might as well not kill him outside the casino."

"Wait -- so --" And like that the hope was gone.

"We got what we needed from him. He kept us company for the ride down here. And then he ran out of blood."

The words were chilling.

Images of Greg -- beaten, bruised, broken and tossed out like trash -- assaulted Nick's mind, and with the images came fresh tears. "How -- how could you do that? He -- he-- he was so sweet. Why -- how --"

"What makes you think you even know _what_ we did? For all _you_ know, he could have been playing _checkers_ with us. I for one always enjoy a good game. Apparently, as _Greggo_ told me, he has a knack for chess, which I too enjoy."

Nick could tell when he was being toyed with. "What did you do to him?" he asked more quietly. "Please."

"Do you _really_ love him?"

"Yes. Please, just let me get him closure. Let me bring him back, so we can have his funeral."

"What would you do to get the body back?"

"Anything."

The man scoffed. "I never understand you people. _Lovesick puppies_." He shook his head as he chuckled. "He wasn't worth that much."

"He was to me."

"Fine. You're all pathetic."

"_Greg_ wasn't pathetic."

The man laughed, and this time it was a sinister laugh.

The man took advantage of the situation, to ask the one last question -- the one that broke the tides of tears. "You wanna know what his last words were, huh, _Nicky_?"

"What?"

"That's what it was."

Nick looked up, confused.

"Nicky. That was his last word."

Nick felt his stomach drop.

"I couldn't tell if it was because, perhaps, he was enjoying himself, but I think we were past that. We realized, I think, that he" -- the man interrupted himself to laugh again -- "that he still thought you could come and save him." The man spoke as if it was the most ludicrous idea he'd ever heard. "He screamed your name like he thought you could protect him."

Nick couldn't handle it, and all he could see was Greg's bloody, sobbing form desperately calling out -- and knowing that he, Nick, wasn't there. He was suddenly numb -- rendered incapable of speaking or moving. All he could see was the whirlwind of moments that could have claimed Greg.

It was Wendy that stepped forward, and Nick barely noticed her movement.

"Please," she said, her voice resolute, though there was a clear edge of tears and desperation. "Please tell us where his body is. How we can find it."

The man laughed again. "I like this girl. Smart cookie, huh? Getting right to the point.

"If you want to find him, then come back here tomorrow morning at three, before sunrise. Ari will tell you what you need to do to get the body."

Wendy nodded, holding back tears. Suddenly, an object came flying through the air toward the two CSIs. It was a large yellow-orange envelope.

"And one more thing -- deliver that package to the post office."

The man stepped out into the night air and vanished as quickly as he'd come, leaving yet another broken man in his wake.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Appreciates_Fine_Labrats left a comment on Chapter 20 with a very good point about Catherine, and her lack of a strong reaction to the casino heist. I think Appreciates_Fine_Labrats made a very good point about this. Nick is still very much haunted by it, and even Warrick and Wendy, neither of whom was there, seem affected by it. Personally, I think Grissom was very right about Catherine -- that she tends to focus on other people's problems (which I'm sure is part of the reason she's often labeled a 'busybody'). At the same time, I think she has had to deal with a lot of hard stuff in her life, probably more than most of her team members, and that, by this point in her life, she's developed a very particular way of dealing with the more stressful and traumatic events of her life. There will be more on this in the next chapter.

The reviews went down again on the last chapter. Again, if there's something you don't like, or if the chapter just doesn't work for you, for some intangible reason, please do let me know. Constructive criticism keeps me going. As do any and all reviews. I'll admit it -- I am a review whore. Please feed my addiction and review.

;)

Harper


	23. Las Palabras Aprendidas, Part 2

DISCLAIMER: If I owned C.S.I., various characters would get more screentime. Also, if I owned the entire franchise, I would probably kill off Horatio Caine. Just a warning to all of you Miami fans for when I rule the world. Yeah right...

Thanks to LaughableBlackStorm for beta!

AUTHOR'S NOTE: First of all, it seems that (according to Wikipedia and WordReference at least) I have been using the wrong word for the factory. The term is maquiladora, not maquilador. I will get around to fixing this, but it is now fixed in this chapter. Maquiladora is Spanish for a specific type of factory used for assembling, rather than producing things, that is especially common in Mexico, in case you were wondering. 'Las Palabras Aprendidas' translates to 'Acquired Words.'

In general, most of this story has been very, very planned out. The outline has been the most important document -- more than any of the chapters. This chapter, or rather the Warrick-Catherine scene in this chapter, however, was one of those scenes that just didn't want to go where I planned for it to go. Somehow Warrick saw something that I didn't, and he ran with it. In the process, though, he brought out a side of Catherine that I very much did not expect. I'm still deciding whether he was right about going in that direction, and whether Catherine's reaction was appropriately in-character. I would love to hear your feedback on that scene, and whether it feels... well, right.

Wowza. I do not know what to say, but you guys rock majorly. Thanks for all of the fantastic reviews on the last chapter. Thanks to SuzSeb, LostLadyKnight, Unity2008, longas91, YuugisGirl, ASOTA, HappyInHell, Praetor_Corvinus, Appreciates_Fine_Labrats, Triden, PugNTurtle, Tuppencecat, QueenOfTheUniverse, CountToEight, Atticus, CrayonTyrant, Marifw, White_N_Nerdy, hiyapeoples, Easily-Obssessed-82193 and one anonymous reviewer for reviews on the last chapter! Seriously, I'm speechless. You guys rock my world. Thanks so much!!!

And here is your reward... what is probably the most important chapter thus far. A head's up -- expect to be at least a little confused by the end of the chapter.

* * *

**CHAPTER 23: LAS PALABRAS APRENDIDAS, PART 2  
**

The drive away from the maquiladora was quiet, as had been the drive to Juárez. Nick drove as Wendy investigated the envelope, dusting for prints and inspecting it for other notable particles. Both investigators were still decompressing the information gained, or so Wendy assumed.

Now, they sat in the car -- it was the only shelter they had -- in a deserted parking lot a block away from the nearest mail drop-off.

A barrage of emotions struck Wendy, not the least of which was a hint of betrayal. Nick _should_ have told her about his and Greg's relationship. She had automatically assumed that Nick was lying at the morgue, when he'd told Mr. Perez that he was looking for his boyfriend, in order to have access to the items found on the unidentified vic. She didn't realize he'd _meant_ it.

Still, the dominant emotion pulsing steadily through her was sympathy.

She felt slightly lost, having been kept out of the loop for so long on an investigation she was pouring so much into.

She was a CSI. She was _supposed_ to know these things -- to figure them out. In her job, she _knew_ that the more facts that were kept from her, the harder it was to piece the case together and interpret it.

She looked at Nick. He wasn't any better than her. He was a better _CSI_ than her, though maybe not now. But still, he didn't have any more right to information on the case.

She may have only been a CSI _trainee_, but she had just as much of a right to the information. She was teaming up -- she was an _equal_. It was her prerogative to get information. She didn't need to prove herself to anyone. It was her case too.

"Nick."

He turned around. The tears had dried up and his face resumed its stolidity.

"I'm sorry about Greg."

He nodded.

"I wish you had told me ahead of time."

"Would it have helped you with the case?"

She thought for a few seconds. "No. Maybe not. But it's still relevant information. And I'm still one of the people investigating." She paused, ensuring that her wording was at its best.

"I'm making sacrifices to work this case, and I _do_ care about the case. I'd appreciate if you trusted me enough to really tell me the whole truth."

Nick nodded, understanding. He looked out the window briefly, as if seeking an opinion from the wind, or as if he wasn't quite comfortable enough with the information he was about to share to look Wendy in the eye while delivering it. "I don't think I'm good at trusting _anybody_. I didn't even trust Greg."

His voice sounded so defeatist, and Wendy knew it was best to drop the subject. Just one more thing. "Just know, Nick" -- she reached for his hand and set her's gently on top of his -- "that I don't think any differently of either of you based on it."

He nodded, and turned his hand over lightly to grip hers. "Greg guessed as much."

She pursed her lips. "I'm sorry for your loss, Nick."

"Thanks."

They sat in silence for a moment -- silence in a truck in the middle of the night, in a now-deserted parking lot.

Nick coughed awkwardly, and Wendy caught the hint. Nick didn't seem too big on talking about feelings.

"So... what next?"

Nick stretched and let loose a small yawn. "I should go drop off this package."

"You sure it's safe?"

Nick stared thoughtfully at the hefty envelope for a second, before bending it slightly. "Yeah. It's definitely just paper. Maybe something slightly sturdier, like photo paper, but it's not a bomb. It's addressed to somewhere in Vegas and I'm pretty sure that they screen mail coming into the country from elsewhere. So it'll get stopped if it's something dangerous."

"Okay." Wendy stared, slightly puzzled, at the envelope. "What do you think is in there?"

"Don't know, and I don't really care. I have to drop it off, and that's what I'm gonna do."

"What's the address?"

"P.O. box back in Vegas."

Wendy nodded. "You heading out now?"

"Yep."

"Then you wanna take these with you?" She reached over, into her kit, for the blood samples now in a Lab-certified envelope addressed to Hodges.

"Sure thing."

Nick yawned one more time before opening the door, leaving Wendy alone with her thoughts. Fortunately, she was also alone with her gun. She locked the doors as soon as he left, and tried to focus on falling asleep. Nick would wake her, she knew, when he got back and needed to get back in the car.

* * *

Both investigators had collected themselves, and Nick had dropped off the envelope, along with the blood samples addressed to Hodges, at the post office in time. Wendy was grateful that she'd found time for a nap in between.

Now, however, it was approaching three, and the pair had to make their way back to the factory.

This time, they both had guns drawn as they entered the factory. Nick took the right side of the building, and Wendy took the left. Wendy tried to push her past fears of the dark away as she pushed forward into the night-filled rooms.

After a few minutes of searching, she found another deep red-brown splotch. It definitely looked to be blood. It also looked fresh enough, as if it had probably spilled over the floor in the last month or so. She photographed the splotch and swabbed the blood. Looking more carefully, however, she could see that what at first appeared to be one dried pool of blood was really two. She could make out trace of what looked to be semen on the second. She shivered, realizing what that meant, before swabbing the ejaculate as well.

Standing up, Wendy took a deep breath, trying her best to imagine that neither of the bloodstains came from Greg.

She moved her flashlight further away, toward more neutral, less provocative targets like the open stairway.

_Swish._

She turned around, fumbling with the gun in the process. She pointed her flashlight at the source of the sound, just in time to see the flutter of long wavy black hair.

She redirected her flashlight again.

This time she found herself face to face with a masked man wielding a gun.

He was slim, but slightly taller than Wendy -- probably 5'10" or 5'11". He wore a worn-looking black leather jacket with a faded logo -- it looked like either white flower petals or wings -- over the right-breast pocket. His mask covered all but his eyes and the thin line of his mouth.

"F-freeze. LVPD."

"Nice try Wendy." His voice was garbled and raspy -- like someone who had smoked far too many cigarettes in his time -- making the pitch and distinct sound of what his voice might have been before almost impossible to identify. She vaguely remembered a mention of the robbers smoking on the report.

But what scared her was that he knew her name.

"A-Ari. You're Ari," Wendy said. "The other man -- the other robber said you'd help us find the body."

"Us?"

She nodded.

"What constitutes this 'us'?"

"M-me and Nick."

The man -- apparently Ari -- nodded. A feminine form brushed up against him and whispered in his ear. He whispered back and the woman stilled. Wendy could see the black wavy hair protruding from the woman's mask. Both wore dark, baggy clothes, along with gloves that almost looked like latex.

"Trying to find his killer? Huh?" He edged forward, so that he was once again standing away from the light. All Wendy could make out now was a shadow, along with the husky, garbled voice.

"Yes," she said softly, even as she felt all nerves leave her.

"What did the _other man_ tell you?"

"That you would tell us how to find his body."

"That's not what I meant. What did he tell you about Greg?"

"That you killed him. You all. That you all hurt him." Her voice wavered as she imagined the pain her friend must have gone through.

"Define hurt."

Wendy looked up, astonished at the man's cruelty. "You really expect me to define it? What you _did_ to Greg?"

The man laughed. "What we _did_ to him. I guess he just said that we had fun, eh?"

Wendy nodded slowly.

She gulped. "We're just trying to find his body."

The man laughed. "How sweet. I'm sure _Greggo_ makes a mighty fine corpse."

"Where did you leave his body?" she growled out.

"I don't think you're the one with the leverage here, Ms. Simms. That means that I will be the one making the rules, and asking the questions."

She could feel herself trembling. It was creepy to think of all the things he might have done to Greg. But knowing that he knew _her_ name...

"Oh, don't worry. I won't hurt you. I'm just a nice old man," the man said with a maniacal laugh.

"But really. I won't hurt you. I _would_ like to talk."

"P-please." Wendy felt reduced to begging. "Just tell me where you put his body."

"You don't want anything more? You don't want to hear the _details_ of how he died?"

"I-- I already know how he died. You -- one of you -- shot him."

The man laughed again. "Oh, how I'm sure Greggo _wishes_ that that's what happened."

"Wha- what do you mean?"

The man spoke slowly, but gleefully. "What do I mean? What do you _think_ I mean? Surely you've processed enough crime scenes to think of the many different ways he could have died -- or rather the things that could have happened _beforehand_ that would leave him bent over, _bleeding_, begging, _desperately_ knocking at death's door. Hmm Wendy?"

"Wha-what did you do to him?"

The man ignored the question. "You want to know how he died? Hmm?"

Even through the garbles** -- **now whispers -- the man pronounced each consonant sharply, like ice slicing down.

"Y-yes. Yes. I want to know how he died."

"Oh now, I was hoping you'd ask. He died slowwly" -- the man dragged out the word -- "and painfully.

"But really, it was a simple death. He bled." He paused again, and again as if thinking hard. "Oh yes, and then he bled some more. And then," -- the man relayed his words as if he were telling a story and coming to an exciting edge-of-your-seat climax --"Then he just stopped bleeding."

Wendy gulped.

"What did you do to him?"

The man's laugh was starting to wear on Wendy's nerves. Every additional malicious chuckle struck at her carefully rewound sanity.

The man waved a hand as if dismissing something jokingly. "Now don't you worry about that, _hon_. Let's just say we had fun."

"Y-you bastard! How --"

"Careful now," the man interrupted in a singsong voice, also interrupting Wendy's charge forward mid-step. "Nicola has a gun too."

He gestured toward the woman, who was looking more and more uncomfortable by the minute. Still, the woman's finger trembled on the trigger. Wendy didn't want to provoke a nervousness-induced shooting.

"You asked why, didn't you, Wendy? You asked why he died."

Wendy couldn't control herself enough to let loose any words, so she just nodded.

"When you were a kid, did you have any toys, Wendy?"

Again, she knew all she could do was nod.

"You ever use a toy so much that it got broken, or just worn out?"

Wendy thought for a moment before nodding.

"Well then, you'd understand why your _Greggo _had to die. See, he was a pretty little toy that we took with us on the ride away from the casino. Now, we're pretty efficient, practical guys, so, if we were given a toy, you know we'd use it. And don't worry, we used that toy well. It's sad," he rubbed his chin and Wendy could hear the fake regret in his voice. "When a toy ends up broken. It's like firecrackers. You just use 'em up, and then they're broken and used up. And you just throw them away, like any other piece of trash."

"P-please," Wendy said, through tears she hadn't expected. "Where's his body?"

The man sighed with annoyance. "Is that _really_ what you want." He paused. "Let me rephrase. Is that _really_ what _Nicky_ wants?"

"Yes!" The answer seemed obvious.

"Well you're wrong."

"No I'm not."

"Nicky didn't love Greg. It shouldn't matter so much to him."

"How can _you_ tell if Nick loved his boyfriend? How would _you_ know?"

The man turned away for a second. "I just do."

Wendy sighed with her own aggravation. "You don't know anything about Nick, or Greg."

The man laughed, almost on instinct. "You have no _idea_ how much I know about both of them. I know _everything_ about them. Do you not understand that one of them was at my disposal for _hours_ in that van? I could get_ any _information from him. _Any_ information I wanted. So yes, I do know _everything_ about both of them. At least a sufficient amount for everything _I _need -- for example, making sure _you _don't tell."

"B-- but." Wendy was suddenly afraid for her life. The way that sounded...

"Oh don't worry. I've already _said_ that I won't hurt you."

Wendy let escape the first thing that came to mind. "If you could brutalize someone as _sweet_ and _kind_ as Greg Sanders, then why should I trust that?! He was perfect! Do you not understand that?! I'm his _shoddy_ _replacement. _As someone who's been following in his _huge_ footsteps, I can say without a _doubt_ that he was an amazing man. He was definitely a better person than me. If you could hurt someone like _him_, then I really don't see why _I_ shouldn't be afraid of you."

Her tirade seemed, somehow, to really catch Ari off guard.

"You really think you're not as good as _Greg Sanders_?" he asked, and she could hear the garbled quality of his voice lessen.

"Yes. He was amazing. I've been following in his footsteps for the last three years."

Ari shook his head. "You really don't know what you're talking about."

"No _you_ really don't know what you're talking about. You _clearly _didn't take the time to get to know either of them -- Nick _or _Greg. Then you would have seen how great they were."

"If either of them was so great, then they would have made better decisions."

Wendy felt herself growing frustrated with the whiny man. "You know what -- just tell me what you want. Tell me what it will take to get Greg Sanders' body. Please."

"Not happening. Now bug off."

"I've got a gun."

"Well so do I, and so does she." He motioned to his female cohort. "So you're outnumbered."

Wendy glared.

"Oh, and one more thing. If you tell Nick that you met with me, I _will_ make Nick's life a living hell. Don't doubt that I _do _know everything about him. 513-232-4867. That's his social security number. Feel free to verify it. I can give you his credit card numbers, the name of every girl _and_ guy he's ever kissed. Everything. Don't disobey me, because Nick _will _pay for it. You understand?"

Wendy nodded.

"Good. Now go."

"How do I know you won't kill me as soon as I turn my back?"

"Because I never kill someone the easy way," he replied confidently.

She turned around, tears still in her eyes, and headed back to the center of the factory. Nick was nowhere in sight.

She started toward the right side of the building when she heard voices. She moved toward them. They were coming from the other side of a door. She set her ear against the door to hear more clearly before acting.

She could distinctly make out one of them as Nick's. The other was a smooth and unfamiliar male voice.

_"You promise to get it done?"_

_"Yes," Nick replied. _

_"It's really worth that much to you?"_

_"I'd do anything."_

_"Fine."_

Wendy was curious, but she could hear the sound of moving footsteps and backed away quickly toward the other side of the room.

Thirty seconds later, Nick emerged from the room.

He glanced over at Wendy, clearly unsuspecting.

"You find anything or anyone?" he asked.

"No. You?"

"Nope."

* * *

Half an hour after his conversation with Grissom, Warrick finally knocked on the door for the second time that day. _Day, night, whatever. _Working night shift always confused things, especially when he worked so many doubles.

Catherine opened the door silently, motioning for him to come in.

A comprehensive silence filled the room, and the two life-and-Vegas-worn CSIs basked in peaceful understanding on Catherine's living room couches.

It was Lindsey that interrupted them as she opened the front door, carrying grocery bags.

"Off from school today?" Warrick asked teasingly.

"It's a Saturday," the teen replied smartly. Though he could still see the humorously raised eyebrow, identical to the one Catherine brought out when someone said something amusingly stupid. _Like mother, like daughter_, he thought with a chuckle. _Equally meddlesome._

"I brought food for you two work-a-holics," she announced. "Eat all you want. Just don't leave a mess for me to clean up, and if you make too much noise, or if I catch you doing somethin' you're not s'posed to do," she paused. "Or if I take one of those ASLs out on the couch afterwards, and I find something... so help me... you will regret it." She glared down both adults, and Catherine was the first to erupt in laughter.

"Thanks, Linds. I guess I'll have to reconsider my policy on letting males in the house, huh?"

Lindsey raised both eyebrows, as if the answer were obvious. "Uh, yeah."

Warrick coughed. "Although ASL might not do you that much good."

Lindsey looked at him curiously, and Catherine just grinned at him.

"Neither your mother nor myself speaks sign language," Warrick said. He tried to keep his English proper, so as to set a good example for Lindsey.

Catherine gleefully followed up his comeback. "And you won't find anything with an _ALS_ either."

Lindsey rolled her eyes. "Very funny," she said before she stalked off into her room.

Warrick looked across the small coffee table at Catherine. Laughter was still present in his eyes. It caught him off guard as he realized just how long it had been since he'd seen the redhead smiling, let alone laughing. It had been a hard month for Catherine. That he knew. Not only did she have to live with the memories of that night -- memories he only dreamed about on worse nights -- but she had been working countless double shifts, while pursuing Tam's case _and_ raising a sixteen-year-old. It surprised Warrick how together Lindsey seemed. Given the number of hours Catherine spent in the Lab, he doubted she had time to sleep, let alone to raise a daughter singlehandedly.

"How are you doing?" he asked.

She shrugged her shoulders. "Fine."

The question seemed to catch Catherine off guard, which surprised Warrick. Catherine was a woman who deserved to be asked that question -- who deserved to have people watching out for her at least a little. She deserved to be taken care of, but she was the one taking care of everyone else.

He met her eyes again, and this time he could really see the fatigue evident in them. The pure exhaustion.

"I mean, really, how are you doing?"

She laughed. It wasn't a pleasant laugh. It was a wild one that kept going and going. The kind that bordered on insanity and desperation and the realization that that was not a question she would have expected in the last month, but that it was one that was oh, so relevant.

She shook her head slowly, knocking it against the air slowly and with great pronunciation. He could see tears in her eyes from the laughter that had finally made itself known in her life again.

"I am exhausted," she said, still smiling dryly.

"Just sleep-deprived, or is it more?" He knew the answer, but he wanted to hear her say it. He remembered, all too well, Tina and, to some degree, Amy ragging on him for not _listening_ well enough -- for not asking about their days, and such. For not caring. But he cared about Catherine, and he would do what he could to make the wonderful, strong, loyal and -- despite what so many people said -- in her own way selfless woman in front of him feel better. To really help her feel _listened to_ and cared for, and taken care of.

"It's so much more," she said. Her voice betrayed no emotion, and was perfectly familiar. It was the voice of a steely Catherine, the one she used to protect her emotions. He wanted her to know that she didn't have to protect them around him.

"Tell me. Tell me everything."

"I miss them," she said softly. Her voice was still steely, but he knew he could crack it eventually.

He just nodded. "Who?"

"Tam," she started, looking off toward the wall.

He had a feeling that she wasn't used to talking about her feelings like this, or at least not being listened to. She was used to being the one to provide the strength. He knew that much.

"You two were close?" Leading questions, he knew at the back of his mind, were the way to go. But he didn't have to think about what to ask, the way he had with Amy and Tina. He just wanted to know. He _needed_ to know.

She nodded in response to his question. "Tam and I... he joked once that I was like a..." She crinkled her brows in thought. "I can't remember the word" -- she chuckled -- "I'm _way _too sleep-deprived to remember that much."

He nodded in understanding.

"But..." Her face grew stoic, almost reflective again. "It had something to do with... sister. He called me... I was like his _substitute _sister. I was _there_ for Tam." She looked at Warrick with teary eyes begging for understanding. "I wanted to watch him grow up. I wanted to see everything he could do. He -- he was so sweet, so innocent and so perfect."

Warrick nodded again. "You wanted to protect him."

Catherine shook her head. "It wasn't that. I'm sure I did, but I didn't..."

Her face looked as if she'd struck an epiphany, and Warrick wondered if, in the process of working through her pain -- rushing through, head held high -- through all of the hard events of her life, she had never really stopped to figure out exactly what Tam's death -- or any number of significant events -- had really meant to her. It only made Warrick respect her more.

She looked like she finally understood. "I didn't protect him. He didn't -- he shouldn't have -- needed it. When I saw him with Ari -- when I saw him being loved, _I_ felt protected. When I saw them together," she said, as her voice gave way to tears, "everything was alright."

Warrick tried to digest the statement, and figure out the next. "They really loved each other?"

Catherine nodded. "I'd never seen anything like it."

It all made a little more sense now. "You'd never seen that kind of love before."

She nodded again, though she didn't seem to be making the connection; she was a little too caught in the sorrow.

"And it probably meant even more to you that it was someone that _you_ loved that was being loved."

She nodded again, though her face was still cast down in sadness.

"They made you believe in love."

She looked up, startled. She looked straight into his eyes for the first time, and he could see something he hadn't seen in Catherine Willows' eyes in a very long time. In fact, he couldn't quite remember if he'd ever seen that look. It was _innocence_.

Warrick had always harbored a suspicion, at the back of his mind, about what had cost Catherine Willows her innocence. He knew she'd been a stripper, that she'd grown up living the full Vegas life. That she'd always been beautiful. A part of him had, on many occasions, saddened when he'd thought of the many awful ways she must have lost that innocence. Looking into her eyes, he realized that stereotypes and assumptions about beautiful women and girls in hard neighborhoods, about strippers shaking and selling their bodies, might not necessarily apply to Catherine's hardened nature. He realized that the many dirty, disgusting ways he dared not think of were not in fact what had forged the greatest break to Catherine's heart.

He didn't doubt that she'd already been hardened to life's ills by the time she saw Tam Jared and Ari Marvin's romance fall to pieces. But he realized that that -- the fall of a beautiful young love that she'd finally had the heart to believe in -- had been what had broken her innocence and her belief in love once and for all.

* * *

Nick glared ahead at the road and watched time pass. Angrily, he stared again at the clock.

_Déjà vu..._

"Nick," Wendy said gently -- just as she had during the drive over. "You might want to keep your eyes on the road."

Nick nodded.

Emotions crossed his face periodically, making it clear that the older man was lost in some sort of daydream. When tears appeared in his eyes and the car began to zigzag more than it already had been, Wendy knew she had to say something. She wasn't going to get killed while helping Nick with an already borderline-illegal investigation. She certainly wasn't going to get killed because Nick Stokes had his head in the clouds while driving. Not when she'd already put so much work into the case. Some days, Nick really did seem like an idiot.

"Nick. Why don't I drive?"

"Fine."

This time, Nick pulled over to the side of the road more smoothly. He got out quickly and held the door for Wendy.

Wendy began driving. She was relieved to see that Nick's daydreams hadn't prevented him from putting on a seatbelt and closing the door.

Something was up, and she knew it. Looking at Nick again, Wendy could tell that the case had to do with more than just closure. If they weren't doing it by the book, she needed to know why.

"So what happens after?" she ventured.

Nick tore his eyes from the clock -- temporarily -- and shrugged his shoulders. "I dunno."

"I thought your whole mission is solving the crime."

"I already know who did it."

She was startled by the answer.

"Who?"

"Ari. Ari Marvin. The guy we were supposed to meet in the factory. He knew Catherine once."

"Then shouldn't we have started there?" she responded quickly.

"Why would we do that?" he asked, and confusion was, strangely enough, evident in his voice.

Wendy felt like she was in some parallel universe, where the definition of her job, or rather her soon-to-be job, had been flipped on its head.

"Because I thought that's how we solve crimes. If you already know who committed them."

"We find the body first."

"There was a body at the casino. That's why you got called in in the first place."

"So?"

Wendy huffed. "So isn't that the body you should be looking at? Especially since that's the body we already have."

"That body's clean. There's no evidence there."

Wendy looked at her colleague, disbelieving.

"Nick. That's one of the first things they teach us _not_ to assume. The _criminals_ assume that. When _they try_ to clean a body, on occasion. But we still find something. That's our _job_."

In all her years working at the lab, Wendy had never expected to be left explaining such a thing to Nick Stokes.

"Nick, we follow the evidence. Not our hunches or emotions. That's what makes this job beautiful. Because the evidence always tells the _true_ story."

"Yeah, well, that's not the _story_ I'm looking for," he replied, mocking the words. She could read his cynicism on the word 'story.'

"We," he began, speaking softly. "_Greg_ and I, and Catherine, cleaned that body -- the original body." He paused. "The robbers, or at least three of them -- Biggs, Richie and Julian -- they helped us clean the whole scene." He paused again, and his voice grew higher. "Doing that... was supposed to get us out alive. All of us.

"I know the story -- the one _you_'re talking about," he continued, voice spookily even. "I know how it went down." Now he just sounded depressed and apathetic. "I know what happened. I just want to find his body. It's not evidence -- _he's_ not evidence. I just want Greg back."

Wendy nodded, realizing she'd signed up for more than what she bargained for. It wasn't a CSIs' James-Bond-esque adventure that she'd departed on with Nick -- it was a funeral procession, and the sad thing was that she wasn't quite sure whose funeral it was.

**

* * *

**

AUTHOR'S NOTE: So, who's who? So far we have a dead body that presumably belongs to one of the robbers; Biggs, who is still in Vegas; one man who Nick and Wendy met at the maquiladora together; one man who Wendy just spoke to; and one other man that Nick seems to have just made a deal with. Lost? Don't worry. That was my goal. Guess away at who is who, and know it will all be revealed eventually ;)

Also, I love to reply to reviews when possible, as I try to avoid filling updates themselves with review replies, so make sure to leave contact info if you're reviewing anonymously and would like a reply.

So what did you guys think of Wendy's encounter? Warrick and Cath's talk? Nick's... well, it seems he's still at least a bit of an enigma... Feedback is love ;) Please review!

~Harper


	24. El Revólver y Revolver

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **Well, first of all, FINALLY! I am sooo relieved to see that the log-in feature on this site is finally working again. As most of you guys probably know by now, the log-in feature, along with all associated functions (i.e. reviewing, uploading and editing of any sort) were down from the 21st to sometime tonight. I am very happy to finally be able to put this chapter up, and apologize for the delay.

Thanks to Tuppencecat, Yoshicat, CountToEight, ASOTA, YuugisGirl, Praetor_Corvinus, longas91, CrayonTyrant, Marifw, QueenOfTheUniverse, White_N_Nerdy, Appreciates_Fine_Labrats and Atticus for reviews on the last chapter. Major, major thanks to LaughableBlackStorm and LostLadyKnight for betaing this chapter at the last minute.

The chapter title basically translates to the author having too much fun with words (and having an epiphany about the word revolver -- specifically that it means different things in Spanish and English). In English, a revolver is basically what y'all know it as (like the snub-nosed revolver found by Wendy and Nick in the maquiladora). In Spanish, the revolver translates to revólver. The Spanish word revolver (without the accent), however, means a variety of things, including to shake, to rummage through and to turn upside down. I think that all of these definitions fit this chapter. So expect to see the reappearance of the snub-nosed revolver, as well as for things to be turned upside down and rummaged through.

Happy reading (and reviewing -cough-)!

* * *

**CHAPTER 24: EL REVÓLVER Y REVOLVER**

Sara sat across the evidence table from Nick. Both stared at photos of a recent convenience store robbery-turned-shooting.

"So... how did your vacation go?"

Nick glanced up. He looked slightly startled. "It went fine," he replied quietly.

"You and Wendy get along?"

Nick continued to stare at the photos for a few seconds before nodding. "Yeah. Yeah, we did."

"That doesn't sound like a ringing endorsement." She continued to stare until Nick met her gaze.

He shied away immediately, diverting his eyes to the photos again. "I dunno."

"Yes. Yes, you do," she said forcefully. "I know what you've been up to in the last month, Nick. I know what you've been doing since we talked last."

He looked up again, his eyes wide with fear. "And what's that?" he asked. She could tell that the confidence was feigned.

It was her turn to stare at the photos, but she did so with more force.

"What's that?" he repeated, his voice gaining volume and impatience.

"I just said what it is," she said, shaking her head as her gaze remained glued to the photos.

"You didn't say anything." She could hear the frustration in his voice. Which was exactly what she wanted. Because it was exactly how she'd been feeling the past two months.

"Exactly. I didn't say anything. Because that's exactly what you did. Nothing."

He glared, leaning across the table. "Then what _something_ do you want me to do?"

Sara leaned across the table -- further -- to almost meet him. "Exactly what I told you to do a month ago. Exactly what _he_ asked you to do. Get over him."

Nick turned around, this time to face the wall, and bit his lip. "I'm trying, Sar. I really am."

"Then try harder."

He chuckled, shaking his head. It was good to see his eyes wrinkle with laughter again. It had been too long. "That's it. That's it, is it?"

"Yes. That's it."

"Fine."

Sara smiled, and leaned over toward the photos, in earnest this time. "Well I'll go and finish the case this time. You get to work."

Nick smiled back at her, though, for the life of her, Sara couldn't tell how genuine that smile was.

* * *

"Shhh. It's alright."

She nodded at the words, more pushing them away than believing them.

"Shh, Cath. It's gonna be alright."

Catherine didn't know when she'd started crying. She hadn't expected to start crying either. Something inside of her head had just clicked. It had been a very long time since she had thought about Tam and Ari -- since she had thought about them the _way_ that Warrick forced her to think about them.

It had been a while since she'd lived in the sentimental, romantic and emotional. It had been an equally long while since she'd wanted to curl up in a man's arms and feel that sort of protection. But Warrick brought it out in her.

Memories stirred in her mind and came rushing out as Warrick's insightful hypotheses opened the floodgates to broken emotions long ago pushed away.

Catherine wiped her eyes. Being weak, sobbing into Warrick's shoulder -- that wasn't what she did. That was for trophy wives and ditzy damsels in distress. It wasn't really for Catherine Willows. She'd opened -- or rather Warrick had opened -- a window into her soul; one she thought she had closed, locked and smashed decades ago. But she could at least push it back, back to barely propped open to only let the bare minimum of unnecessary emotion out. Because she had a case to solve. She had things to _do_.

Tear glands finally seemed to get the message, albeit slowly. She ignored the rest; they were just water, salt and enzymes. Water, _sodium chloride_ and enzymes, as Greg would point out.

She gently pushed herself out of Warrick's arms. The warm, soft arms didn't seem inclined toward relenting, and her own body seemed very much in rebellion with her as it leaned into the embrace.

"We need to dig up a body," she mumbled into his shoulder.

She could see him nodding as she fell asleep again. Finally.

* * *

Wendy pulled up in front of the Lab, after a wonderful night of sleep. With so many frightening thoughts zooming through her mind, she was surprised she'd managed such a refreshing, dreamless night. The scientist in her reminded her that, after so many nights with limited sleep, the human mind went into REM sleep quicker than usual, allowing such beautifully rest.

She had blown an air-kiss at the snug lavender pillow before prancing out the door. Today would be a new day. Wendy Simms would solve her case. Wendy Simms would find closure for Greg Sanders.

Everyone would be alright. Ari Marvin could twist cruel words against her and Nick all he wanted, but it wasn't going to stop Wendy. Nor, she suspected, would it stop Nick. Working in DNA had never given her such an opportunity to get justice for someone, not in the same way.

Here, however, she was getting justice for an amazing human being -- one she idolized and loved like a mentor and dear friend -- as well as for the equally important people in his life and hers.

Wendy Simms was on a mission, she'd thought as she stepped into her car and rolled down the windows, letting the breeze blowing through feed her adrenaline.

That was when she noticed the breeze blowing something else – something in the back seat of her car. Something that hadn't been there the night before. She frantically checked her rear view mirror before pushing down on the brakes abruptly and swerving into the nearest empty patch of suburban street shoulder to park. Her execution was less than graceful.

She reached back for the offending item: a manila folder. Words were scrawled in a fast, slightly feminine longhand on the front of it.

'_Por tu amiga en Ciudad Juárez' _… _From your friend in Ciudad Juárez_

She grabbed the folder and reached into her purse for reading glasses. Because she couldn't be reading what she thought she was reading. And yet she was.

The first papers held DNA profiles and fingerprints.

_Carlos Sandoval, Policía, greater Chihuahua area_

_Sam Gómez, Policía, Ciudad Juárez_

_Juan Santiago, Policía, Ciudad Juárez_

_Cristian Portillo, Policía, Ciudad Juárez_

Wendy furrowed her brow, more than a little confused. She turned the page. Dead eyes surrounded by eyelashes clotted with oozing mascara met hers.

_Jane Doe #89_

_Lenora, Guito y Nicola Hernandez la encontraron en la maquiladora en la calle Paloma, con el John Doe # 76... _the robber

Lenora, Guito and Nicola Hernandez found her at the factory on Paloma Street, with John Doe # 76 -- the robber they'd almost thought was Greg

_Demonstra señales del asalto sexual; le encontraron el semen_

Signs of sexual assault; semen found

_COD: derramamiente de sangre_

COD: Bled out

Next to the girl's DNA profile was a fingerprint, sloppily smudged but still definitely usable.

The next page...

_John Doe # 76_

_Lenora, Guito y Nicola Hernandez le encontraron en la maquiladora en la calle Paloma, con la Jane Doe # 89_

Lenora, Guito and Nicola Hernandez found him at the factory on Paloma Street, with Jane Doe #89

_DNA está igual al semen encontró en la Jane Doe #89_

DNA matches the semen found in Jane Doe # 89

_COD: Lincheado; trauma a la cabeza_

COD: Beaten to death; died of trauma to the head

_Le pegó después de morirse_

Shot post-mortem

She fingered five bullets in a plastic bag stapled to the file, knowing they must have been the ones fired post-mortem at the John Doe robber. And somehow the bullets looked familiar. She looked at them more carefully, then looked down at their accompanying note.

_Snub-nosed revolver_

One last sheet was tucked behind the DNA profiles, by way of a green striped paper clip. Wendy raised an eyebrow at the whimsical office supply. Then again, she remembered advice -- given what seemed like ages ago, but really was only two years prior.

For some reason, the green paperclip, and the whimsy belied in the offbeat item, reminded her of the man for whom they were seeking justice. She remembered when she'd first joined the Lab...

_Nov. 10, 2005_

_Wendy sat nervously in her wheeled chair, staring out over her results. It was hard to resist second-guessing them. It was only her first week in the Lab, and she'd been trying to lose that feeling of walking on eggshells around her colleagues. _

_The CSIs especially made her nervous. She couldn't hold back the feeling of dread that, by accident, she would give the intimidating and gorgeous Nick Stokes, Greg Sanders or Warrick Brown the wrong results. She imagined Catherine Willows giving her the glare of doom, or Gil Grissom himself rushing back to the Lab, furious to find that incorrect lab samples were to blame for a full case gone awry. _

_No need even mentioning her fear of Sara Sidle, the cold and beyond-intimidating work-a-holic. Wendy was fairly certain that she never wanted to get on the bad side of Sara. The only time Wendy had ever seen Sara even laugh was with Greg Sanders, the lowest level CSI. And Wendy had a feeling that such laughter was tied in to some secret relationship between the two attractive brunette CSIs. _

_Greg seemed quirky, but she doubted he had what it took to make Sara laugh. And as for the wrong results, she had yet to see Greg angry, but she didn't want to, and she had a feeling that the persistently happy young CSI would have the greatest wrath, since it seemed to be invoked so infrequently -- more like never. _

_"How's it going?"_

_Wendy didn't need to glance up to know that Archie Johnson had once again emerged from the cave that was the A/V lab. He was the most social person she knew that spent most of his life staring at a television screen. And she meant that kindly. Archie was, hands-down, one of the most affable people she'd met at the Lab, and, though Henry had been the first to befriend Wendy, Archie felt like her first 'real' friend. In a lab filled with quirky and not-so-socially-apt scientists, he was the most genuine -- the person nobody in their right mind could really find a reason to hate. _

_Unless they hated on Spock. That was simply unacceptable. Expressed disdain for Doctor Who, Stargate or Battlestar Galactica was similarly abhorred. But that was a quirk Wendy could tolerate. And she was reluctant to admit that some of those shows were gradually making their ways into her own free time. _

_"Nothin' much," she said with a sigh. "Is the vice-president still talking to dead robots?" she asked as she swirled her chair around to face him._

_"Pardon?"_

_She looked up, to realize it wasn't Archie she had been talking to. She blushed under Greg Sanders' incredulous stare. _

_"Sorry," she mumbled. "Thought you were Archie."_

_She was surprised to see Greg break out into a grin. "Oh," he said. Then his face lit up in an epiphany. "Oh!" He smiled expectantly, while Wendy quirked a brow. _

_"Archie has got you on the sci-fi bandwagon too. What else would a nerdy lab rat do?"_

_She scowled. Here he had come in acting nicely, only to hate on the measly lab rats some more. _

_"Why are you guys all so snobby?"_

_Greg stared at her, eyes wide. "What?"_

_"You CSIs. What's with hating on us _nerdy _lab rats?"_

_"Huh?" Then Greg broke out into a brief laugh. "I think _us_ is the imperative word there. Speaking as a former lab rat, and one who takes great pride in his nerdiness."_

_"When were _you_ a lab rat?"_

_"You know who Mia was?" he asked, still grinning, this time teasingly. She hadn't realized before what a friendly and appealing smile Greg had._

_"Yes. She worked DNA before me. She hired me."_

_"Because lab techs have to pick their own replacements," Greg noted._

_"Um. Yes."_

_"I picked Mia."_

_"Huh? Oh! Wait..."_

_Greg laughed at her indecisiveness and confusion. "I _know_ you're smart enough to figure that out. DNA techs _always"_ -- he paused -- "are the smartest." He leaned in mischievously to add at a lower volume, "And make sure Hodges knows that."_

_Wendy laughed. "Will do."_

_Greg got up to leave, walking toward the door cheerfully, only to suddenly turn around. "Why do you think CSIs are snobs?"_

_Wendy looked thoughtful for a moment. "You guys are so cold. Whatever I say, you guys just give me dirty looks."_

_Greg nodded in understanding. "They're not jerks, or snobs. Just stressed."_

_"Don't they still have a sense of humor?"_

_Greg laughed. "Of course they do. Why?"_

_"Well, I like to think I'm at least a relatively funny person. I can make the other lab techs laugh. Like, there was this case. Did you hear about it?"_

_Greg raised an eyebrow, though still stared intently. Clearly he didn't know which case she was talking about if she hadn't told him. _

_"There was this guy -- an alcoholic. But there was something wrong with his throat or something -- laryngitis. So he couldn't drink the booze. So he absorbed it via another means." Wendy was putting her all into biting back her laughter before she told the whole story._

_Greg raised the same eyebrow. "Up the ass, eh?"_

_"How'd you know?!"_

_"Old party trick."_

_Wendy gaped like a fish. _

_Greg rephrased. "Not one that _I_ tried... but I did go to college. I've seen it all," he said with a smile as he pushed an arm back over the chair he had somehow unearthed from under the counter. Then he laughed, and Wendy couldn't hold back her own laughter anymore. _

_"So I say," she said, still laughing, "that... at least he died drunk off his ass."_

_Greg laughed, and she liked his laugh._

_"Then Nick Stokes just glared at me."_

_Greg rolled his eyes and nodded, his expression growing serious. "Nick Stokes." He certainly didn't sound surprised._

_"Yeah. Why?"_

_"He has a sense of humor. Just... he tends to take things seriously. Don't take it personally. He's not a snob. He just doesn't laugh about that kind of stuff."_

_Wendy nodded. "But Mandy told me that he always used to laugh at another tech's bad sex jokes."_

_Greg grimaced. "I think I know which tech you're talking about. Don't expect the same sort of reaction from him. They had a weird relationship."_

_Wendy nodded._

_"And Wendy --" Greg stepped up to go, but leaned in to speak first. "Everyone has a sense of humor here. It's just that... you don't always see the whole picture when you're sitting in the Lab. The case with the guy who was drunk off his ass? He started getting drunk off his ass after his 12-year-old daughter was an innocent bystander in a gang shooting. Nick and I covered her case."_

_Wendy shut her mouth quickly, her mouth forming an 'O.' "I'm sorry, Greg. I didn't mean --"_

_But Greg smiled, interrupting her. "No. Don't apologize. You guys keep your sense of humor. Someone needs to. And we all appreciate it. Really. The human race has but one really effective weapon, and that is laughter."_

_Wendy raised a brow. "That sounds like a Grissom-ism."_

_"Psh." Greg smirked. "I'm Greg Sanders. I get my own quotes."_

_"Sure you do."_

_"That one was Mark Twain. And, to my knowledge, Grissom has never used it."_

_Wendy laughed. "Glad to hear it."_

_Greg made his way out, yelling back over his shoulder. "But really. It's the little bits of humor that keep us going. Even Nick knows that." He paused for dramatic effect, turning his face melodramatically serious, before reciting: 'Laughter is the tonic, the relief, the surcease for pain.'" He beamed back. "That one was Charlie Chaplin. I don't think Grissom's ever quoted _him_."_

Advice from Greg. It had only been two and a half months since the incident. But it still felt like yesterday that she had asked the CSI 2 how he could still joke around after all that had happened -- after all that he saw on a daily basis while working with the dead, the traumatized and the mourning.

He wasn't, after so many years, the same Greg he had been when she had come in. He had been funnier, more flamboyant, more goofy. But he was still a good man. And still one who knew how to lighten up the moments that needed such humor most.

Wendy stared at the paperclip again and thought back to her brief conversations with Lenora. Greg would be glad to know that the woman that was helping find him closure had a sense of humor and whimsy.

The bullets jostled in her hand, interrupting the train of thought. She really had to figure out who that snub-nosed revolver belonged to, or even how Lenora would have known that the revolver had been the murder weapon.

So many questions. So little time. She had to get back to the Lab.

* * *

The graveyard was barren, fortunately. Both CSIs were relieved to see that the grass had just been replanted. No one would notice a grave dug up if they put the dirt back in the same place.

Shovels clanged down. Warrick lost himself in the sound, pausing to listen and watch. The expression on Catherine's face was furious. Furious and determined. In so many years working with her, he wasn't sure when he had last seen her with such an expression. Her eyes pierced the dirt, and he wondered how someone so small could exert so much force. But she kept going.

It didn't surprise him, after years of knowing Catherine Willows, that digging would be her best therapy. _Doing something_. That was the only way she moved anywhere. He was happy to be helping her find any form of catharsis available.

_Hell, it's a better catharsis than drinkin' or smoking. _

It was a relatively benign form of therapy, save for the fact that it definitely wasn't legal to just go digging up graves. It was strange that they'd come to this. But they were in it to the end.

They both were.

* * *

Nick stared at the woman in front of him. He had pulled out all the stops. He really had. Fancy chandeliers. Fancy waiter that spoke in French. He even made Amy giggle when he did that, and called her Madame.

Nick resisted the urge to point out that the waiter's French was wrong; Amy was -- at least as far as Nick knew -- a _mademoiselle_, not a madame. He wasn't married to her. The thought of _being _married to her sent thick knots, like writhing snakes, into his stomach.

But it was only the first date. She would grow on him. He couldn't expect her to be another Greg.

He choked back a visceral reaction to the name of his deceased lover. Greg wanted Nick to move on, and Nick was going to do it. Except every time he thought of Greg, and how, in some perverse way, he was doing this _for_ Greg, all he felt was the overwhelming sadness.

The waiter speaking in French again disrupted Nick's spiraling thought process, which was probably for the better.

Nick didn't really like French. It seemed kind of snotty. The French didn't seem to really like Texas either, so it worked out. And, being from Texas, Nick had learned a lot more Spanish, which also tended to come in handy in law enforcement far more than did French.

"Vous avez choisi, madame?"

"I believe the correct term is 'mademoiselle,'" Nick corrected, still not lifting his eyes from his menu. He could feel the waiter look down at him, and he glanced up, flashing a megawatt smile.

Greg had said that Nick's smile was his best feature, even when Catherine and Sara said it was his muscles. Yet somehow they always accused guys of being shallow. Greg frequently bucked that trend.

"Je suis désolé, mademoiselle."

Amy giggled again.

Frøken. That was 'mademoiselle' in Norwegian. He loved how Greg sounded when he spoke Norwegian.

Nick looked up again, this time gruffly. "I don't think either of us speaks French, _monsieur_, so, if you want us to actually place orders, you might want to ask your questions in our language."

Amy raised an eyebrow teasingly, as if Nick was somehow putting on a show for her; as if he was somehow jealous of the waiter's attentions toward his date, toward _her_.

When he went to scenes, and, on occasions, out in public (though never as 'dates') with Greg, he'd always gotten jealous when another person, man or woman, touched or tried to flirt with his boyfriend. Now, though, he couldn't care less.

To be honest, he kind of liked that the waiter was flirting with Amy. At least that way she was having a good time.

She was, really a nice person. They had spoken briefly a few months prior when she had called Nick looking for Warrick. It turned out that Warrick had just left his cell phone in his locker before pulling a double.

He had spoken to her again shortly before the casino heist, when she'd been asking him for advice about how to get to Warrick. He had been ignoring her.

_Just like I ignored Greg so many -- too many -- times._

He sighed sadly.

It was pure coincidence that landed Nick and Amy on their date; she had been coming by the Lab to drop stuff off for Warrick just as Nick had been leaving his conversation with Sara, determined to make good on Greg's dying wish.

Amy's kind smile had presented a quick means. To be honest, he kind of liked her smile. It reminded him of the girls his family back home would try to pick out for him -- cute, perky, wholesome.

But, all three, in such a different way than Greg.

"_Monsieur_, what would you _like_ to order?" He glanced up again at the waiter, who shot back a cold stare. The man still spoke with a strong accent.

He liked Nana and Papa Olaf's accents better.

"I'll just have the steak."

"Ve have... multeeple kinds of.. eh, _beef_ here." The man sounded like he was choking up a hairball when he said beef.

"What about fish?" Nick felt an unpreventable obnoxious streak coming on, egged on in part by the seemingly pretentious waiter and in part by the fact that it delayed having to make nice romantic talk with Amy.

"Um," the man looked genuinely pensive for a moment before replying. "Well, we have a... em.. pan seared sturgeon in bouillabaisse emulsion."

Nick raised an eyebrow. "Got any gravlaks?"

The man blinked, clearly clueless, before going red. "I vill have to go ask the manager about that."

Nick chuckled.

Amy leaned across the table, smirking. "So... what's gravlaks?"

"Kinda fish."

"It's a French dish?"

"No."

She raised an eyebrow. "Didn't sound French."

"Well you clearly have an ear for what sounds French, sweetheart."

She withdrew her elbow and pushed back toward the chair, taking on a colder stance. "What's that supposed to mean?"

He realized just how much he was alienating his guest. "Nothin.' Never mind."

She seemed to relent. "So what kind of dish _is_ gravlaks?"

"Norwegian."

"Is there a reason you're ordering gravlaks at a _French_ restaurant?"

"Nope."

She shook her head, exasperated. "Is there somethin' funny in the drinking water at that CSI building or something?"

He chuckled. "Nope. It's all fine and dandy. Makes the best coffee. Though the best coffee isn't there anymore."

Which brought him promptly to the _reason_ the best coffee wasn't there anymore. The Blue Hawaiian was stashed away at home -- now just his home. He tried to stop himself from drinking it, but sometime he just missed Greg too much. They said the sense of smell had one of the strongest links to memory. Of _course_ it had been Grissom that had said that.

"You know, I didn't think I'd be able to find a man who was more of a detached, rude enigma than Warrick Brown." She paused, making sure she had his attention. "But right now you seem set on proving me wrong."

"I'm sorry."

"What? Did you drink the Catherine-Willows-is-a-goddess kool-aid also?"

Nick choked on the glass of ice water he had just brought to his mouth in a lame attempt to divert the conversation and hide his own squelched laughter. "Catherine? Hell no. She's _so_ not my type."

Amy raised her eyebrows, as if she was a little confused, but also as if at least one thing had just become abundantly clear.

"I'll trust _you_ on that."

Nick nodded, unsure of what to say.

Fortunately, their obnoxious waiter interrupted the all-too-pleasant conversation before Nick had to say anything more.

"Ze chef has informed me that he has never he-ard of zis '_gravlaks'_ in his life."

He said 'gravlaks' like it was some disease. That was how Nick had approached it at first, much to Greg's dismay. Yet it had eventually grown on him. He just hadn't told Greg that; he had just kept whining about it.

The waiter cleared his throat. "Ees there something else you would like Mr. Stokes?"

"No. I'm good."

He felt a foot kick him under the table. Looking up, he saw Amy casting him an angry look.

"I'll take the escargot."

The waiter raised his eyebrows. "Alvright then."

Amy looked at him with bemusement. She seemed to have regained some respect for him at his adventurous dinner choice.

He didn't think he'd like it. But he wanted to be the kind of person who'd try anything once. That's the kind of person that Greg was -- that Greg had tried to be. Nick hadn't been so supportive. Half the time, the things Greg wanted to try were just too 'out there' for the Texan's taste. Now, he wished he'd let Greg try them. There were so many things he wished he'd done for his ex-partner.

He hated applying the term 'ex' to Greg. 'Ex' implied a choice to separate. He'd never chosen it. He still had trouble believing Sara that Greg had wanted to split up. But there was little else he could call Greg. He was no longer a boyfriend. And Nick wasn't a widower because he'd never been willing to go anywhere near that far. Like Sara said, he hadn't loved Greg enough, or at least he hadn't shown it to Greg. Marriage had been so far off the plate that it could have been on Mars.

Yet this waiter thought at first that _Amy_ -- Warrick's ex, whom Nick barely knew -- was Nick's _wife_. Yet Nick knew it was a logical assumption. He'd taken Amy to this fancy restaurant. Because Sara had advised that he pulled out all the stops to impress someone; to make his next relationship better.

Somehow, that small detail -- a detail that he'd never bothered with for Greg -- made all the difference.

He knew Greg had been an exhibitionist -- eager to show off a hot date. Greg had been so adamant on going out, but Nick had refused. He'd refused for Greg, yet somehow Amy got that treat. Somehow _she_ got the fancy date, while Greg had just gotten to put up with Nick for five years?!

The more Nick thought about it, the more furious he grew. Furious with himself. Furious with Amy for sitting there as if she was some decent replacement for Greg in his life. Furious with Sara for suggesting it. And, most of all, furious with himself for never having pulled out such stops for the one person that really mattered. The one person who would have gone all the way for him.

_It's not fair._

"Nick?"

He glanced up at Amy. She was a nice person, really. She just wasn't Greg. She didn't deserve to be his rebound girl, but he wasn't going to lie to himself and pretend his rationale had anything to do with her feelings.

_If this is selfish, fine. I don't care._

"I can't do this, Amy." He began to slowly lift himself from his chair.

She rolled her eyes and shook her head. "I should have expected as much from a friend of Warrick's."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I suppose you're going to go dashing after Catherine, rife with apologies about now?" she asked dryly.

"Nah. I'm goin' after my dead ex-boyfriend."

Coming out of the closet was easier than he'd expected, and not nearly as terrifying. The words just sat there, comfortably lounging across the air. He knew the awkward silence that followed the revelation would provide ample time for him to leave cash on the table and make his escape.

Instead of staring awkwardly or cringing, however, Amy chuckled. "The way Warrick described how you were about your dead colleague -- or, rather, the way he described you on the phone with _Catherine_ -- I'm not surprised."

Nick smiled at Amy -- his first genuine smile of the night -- feeling more at ease now that his secret was out.

"Thanks."

"No problem," she replied, glancing around uncomfortably in the aftermath of such a brutally honest and sincere exchange. "But you're still gonna cover the bill?"

"Sure thing, sweetheart," he said, putting a hundred on the table. "I hope you get the best steak dinner they have, and the best dessert."

"I'm not sure how, but I hope you get the best dessert -- the best sweet ending possible, Nick," she said with a smile as he got up from the table.

"Thanks," he replied, making his way out of the restaurant.

Greg's last words be damned, Nick wasn't going to forget his boyfriend any time soon. Or ever.

The Stokes family paired up for life, and Nick knew who his other half was. And he had a feeling he'd be joining that other half soon enough.

* * *

Catherine sat back, exhausted. She could feel the sweat glistening. She could feel the adrenaline gradually surging through and out her veins. She could feel the dirt beneath her. And she could feel the firm, cold stainless steel under her hands and feet.

Looking six feet up from the cool metal at her feet, she could see the familiar name -- the familiar tombstone.

Tam's funeral had been a blur. Catherine had stood by her mother and her boyfriend of that particular month. She couldn't remember what the boyfriend's name had been. She remembered how strange it had been -- that everyone important to Tam had been there. Just not Ari. It hadn't felt right.

Nothing had felt right.

She had worked hard. The more she worked, and the harder she worked, the more right things had started to feel. But never all the way. Nothing was ever quite whole -- quite all there, all _real_, all right -- after Tam had died.

Feeling the metal under her, she hoped things would start feeling right again soon.

Once she got closure. Once Greg got closure. Once Nick got closure. Once Tam got closure. Once Ari got closure.

Warrick climbed down, kits in hand. They opened the casket.

He looked like a dead body. Catherine didn't know quite what mortician services Mr. Jared had used, or rather paid for, but whatever the mortician had done, it had worked better than most. Tam -- or at least the body -- was surprisingly well preserved.

Catherine reached over for tweezers, still not speaking. She could see and hear the flicker of the camera as Warrick took photos of the body. She had begun to extract the bullets when she heard footsteps. She jerked, but Warrick reached for her shoulder, effectively shushing her movements.

She breathed hard and stared at Tam as the footsteps grew closer.

"Uh... hi, guys."

Catherine glanced up in disbelief at the nervous assistant coroner now standing six feet above her and Warrick.

"Warrick called me. He said it was for Greg."

Catherine nodded. She was surprised to say the least. She hadn't realized the depth of David Phillips' loyalty to the ex-lab tech and former CSI. Then again, she hadn't expected Warrick to help her as much as he had either.

Warrick managed to hop out of the grave with a single hand from Dave. Then Warrick reached down to lift Catherine out. She loved how strong he was.

Dave carefully climbed down, narrowly avoiding stepping on the corpse.

Catherine rested her eyes while a friend she didn't quite know she had had processed her former friend's body.

Thirty minutes later, Dave emerged, clumsily climbing up with Warrick's aid. He tucked two bullets into Catherine's hand. One -- the post-mortem shot to the chest -- looked like it could have easily come from the 9mm. The second was less recognizable.

Warrick looked at the second bullet carefully, over Catherine's shoulder.

"If I didn't know better, I'd say that came from a revolver. An old one."

Catherine glanced up, realization striking. "A snub-nosed revolver. Like the one Tam carried."

* * *

AUTHOR'S NOTE: First of all, I have a clue that I've been dying to give you guys. There are two fanfiction clichés in this story. They are songfic and Mary-Sue. However, they're not just clichés because they're also clues. If you can figure out who the Mary-Sue is, I guarantee something big will become apparent. If you can figure out how songs relate to the story, something else big will become apparent. Here's the big hint to figure out how Mary-Sue and the songfic relate to this story: NAMESAKE. Anyway, happy hunting!

BUT... do please review before you start hunting for clues ;)

~Harper


	25. Soltar

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **First of all, huge thanks to Thanks to CrayonTyrant, QueenOfTheUniverse, YuugisGirl, CrystallineSolid, longas91, liz, Evil_Genius_of_the_COCA, Praetor_Corvinus, Marifw, readingcats, White_N_Nerdy, Easily_Obsessed-82193, Atticus, Tuppencecat and Appreciates_Fine_Labrats for reviews on the last chapter, to LostLadyKnight for looking over the chapter again, and to LaughableBlackStorm for her continuing and amazing help with beta! The Warrick-Sara scene toward the end is unbetaed, which is, again, entirely my fault, as I accidentally sent LaughableBlackStorm an extra copy of the first Sara scene in the place of the W-S scene. Also, I made a few edits post-beta, and apologize ahead of time for any typos in those portions. To keep track of evidence and edits, I bolded and underlined a few lines. I'm fairly certain I got rid of all of the strange formatting on this document, but if you see any, that's why. (And if you see any, also do please let me know so that I can correct it.)

Anyway, I apologize very much for the delay. As previously noted, it took me a ridiculously long time to get this chapter, along with the following one, together because of all of the evidence that had to be put together. I have to say that I now have all the more respect for writers (and CSIs) for keeping track of so much evidence in cases. And, by the end of these two chapters, I hope you guys have similar feelings about Wendy, who is dealing with the bulk of the evidence on this particular case, and with very little experience in the field. On the excuse note, while I was trying to finish the chapters, the Internet went down in all of the dorms on my part of campus, and my ethernet drop hasn't been working for over a week, which caused some major issues in writing (as I needed to access past chapters on FFnet) and in sending it to LaughableBlackStorm for beta. On a positive note, I got three chapters done while I was without Internet, so there shouldn't be anymore delays in the near future, and the next three chapters, including this one, are all definitely on the longer side. Anyway, you guys didn't come here for excuses, so here is the chapter ;/

'SOLTAR' translates (approximately) to 'to let go'.

**Standard disclaimers.** If I owned it, Warrick would still be alive. However, the last episode, 'Way To Go,' which I LOVED, probably would have been exactly the same. All Greg fans should definitely watch that episode if they haven't already.

* * *

**CHAPTER 25: SOLTAR**

_"It is best to love wisely, no doubt: but to love foolishly is better than not to be able to love at all." -- William Makepeace Thackeray_

Warrick stared at his reflection in the mirror. He took great pride in his ability to tie a tie. Some men needed a woman to tie their ties. For Warrick, however, it was generally about want rather than need. He loved a woman, but he would never _need_ her, just as she would never need him. Together, though, they still fit.

Catherine had gone home to get dressed in more funeral-appropriate clothes. He thought something had changed in her since their trip to the cemetery, but he could never tell. Catherine was good at hiding things -- better than just about anyone else he'd ever known. Watching Catherine taught him the difference between emotive and transparent. Somehow she found the right balance -- evading stoicism at the right moments, but not wearing her heart on her sleeve. Except for those two nights -- the talk and the dig. Those were their nights. Those were the nights they had, at least for now. Life was too hectic. They'd agreed on it. Deal with life, _then_ deal with love. But they would deal with it soon enough.

Warrick heard a hasty scraping. He looked up to see Nick shoving though a locker.

"Whatcha lookin' for?"

Nick shook his head. "Somethin' for Greg."

"You mean for the funeral?"

"Memorial," Nick corrected. "You can't have a funeral without a body."

Warrick nodded. He didn't quite agree, but he gave Nick the benefit of the doubt.

It was to be a small ceremony. A handful of lab personnel. Greg's mother and stepfather. Maybe Greg's father. Nick had managed to dig up the names of a handful of Greg's college friends, and three of them were coming. The Lab hadn't wanted anything big, and Catherine had been worried that a few protesters or members of the press -- the ones who still saw Greg as the white cop that had run down a black teenager -- would show up and turn it into a fiasco.

They wanted something respectful. A chance to reflect and grieve for those that had really known Greg in the last decade. Technically, there wouldn't be a funeral until Greg's body was actually found. That was the one thing Jan Sanders had insisted on. That Greg get a funeral, where he was really laid to rest next to his Nana and Papa Olaf and his three siblings, all miscarried or stillborn. Then, maybe, he'd get a real funeral -- one that wouldn't be overshadowed by the Demetrius James fiasco, the casino heist or any of the other drama of the past few years.

"You know who Thackeray was?"

Warrick looked up, startled, from the black leather shoes he'd been tying. "He was an author, right?"

"Yeah. According to Wikipedia. And Grissom," Nick replied.

Warrick nodded, assuming there was a reason for the question.

"Greg mentioned him."

"Whad'ya mean?" Warrick asked patiently.

"He mentioned him. And he mentioned you."

Warrick could sense the irritation in Nick's voice and decided not to push it. "Oh."

"You ever talk to Greg about Thackeray?"

"I don't know."

Nick shook his head slowly. "I never understood him," he said quietly.

Warrick nodded, staring off toward Greg's locker, now Wendy's. The familiar locker reminded him of when he'd heard that author's name before. "Now I remember him," he said, feeling gratified.

"Thackeray or Greg?"

Warrick looked up, slightly alarmed. "Thackeray," he told Nick, slightly stunned at the question. "I'd never forget Greg."

Nick nodded. "Good. He shouldn't be forgotten."

Warrick raised an eyebrow. He was still slightly baffled. "Of course not. He was a friend. A good friend. To most of us."

It was Nick's turn to look up alarmed. "_Most_ of us? Who was he less than a friend to?"

"I meant more."

Nick tilted his head in apparent confusion.

"He wasn't less than a friend to anyone here, or at least to anyone on our team. He was a good man, and a good friend. But I think he was _more_ than a friend to you."

Nick nodded absentmindedly. "Yeah. Yeah, he was."

"Why didn't you tell me, Nick?"

Nick shrugged. "I was worried. Greg wanted to tell Sara, possibly Cath as well."

Warrick tried not to feel hurt. It wasn't his place to hold it against his ex-colleague. He hadn't been as close to Greg as Sara or, apparently, Catherine. But everybody loved Cath. She was the mother of the team. Warrick tried to disregard the squickish thoughts that came to mind with that line of reasoning. Warrick hadn't been as close to Greg as Sara had been, nor obviously as Nick had been. But still, he'd counted the younger man among his best friends, just by virtue of working the same shift. It was difficult not to feel hurt, at some deeper level, by the fact that he was the one that Greg really hadn't wanted to know, as Catherine had told him earlier. But he shook the thought away. Dwelling on it did no good. Dwelling on anything for too long had never been Warrick's tendency. Not doing so was part of what kept him sane on the job. Everyone on the team -- or on any comparably morbid job -- had their coping strategies. Warrick's was to simply let things go once they were done, and once he couldn't do any more.

He accepted the answer. And he needed to help his friends.

He turned to Nick. "He was talking about a quote."

"When you guys talked about Thackarey?"

Warrick nodded. Both men sat on the bench now, having long ago finished dressing for the ceremony.

"What'd he say? What was the quote?"

"Somethin' about stupid love versus no love."

Nick looked peeved. "Can you remember more?"

"Nick, I'm not Grissom. I don't spend my off-time memorizing quotes." Then he looked into Nick's eyes and knew that this was important.

He thought harder. Nick took the extra time to shuffle through his locker some more.

"'It's better to love stupidly – no, _foolishly_ -- then to not love.' That was it." Warrick felt the normal relief of remembering something he really wanted to recall.

"What was the argument about?"

Warrick creased his brows. "Argument?"

"You had a perspective on the quote."

Warrick thought back, and realized quickly that Nick was right. "Yeah," he replied. "I had just broken up again with Tina. I really thought we were going to divorce that time for sure." Then he remembered more, with a smile. "But we didn't and the make-up sex was --" He looked at Nick, and back away, ashamed. "Oh, yeah. Sorry." He cleared his throat. "Greg was in some weird funk. I chalked it up to the beating and everything. We could all tell it had taken it's toll on the kid."

"He wasn't a kid."

Warrick shrugged. "I know. Sometimes he still felt like one. He still had that -- just childlike _thing_ about him." He paused, realizing the thoughts going through his mind. "He was so _innocent_. Out of all of us, he was the one who didn't seem broken. At least before he got into the field. It's hard not to think of him like a little brother."

Nick nodded grimly, though Warrick could sense the disconnect and chuckled lightly.

"I guess you probably didn't quite think about him the same way."

Nick's lopsided smile in response was a wonderful thing. "So what'd Greg say about the quote?"

"He agreed with it."

Nick's smile seemed to fall at that. "What'd _you_ say about it?"

"I disagreed. Though now I realize I was probably wrong. Even with the whole mess with Tina. I'm glad I had the experience. Loving stupid taught me how to love smart. Now I know I've got a good thing goin'." He immediately realized he'd spilled the beans, and that it wasn't the best time to bring up his new relationship with Catherine. But Nick didn't seem to notice.

Nick just stared. "You disagreed?" he parroted.

"Uh... yeah." Nick definitely didn't notice the over share. "Why?"

"He said you were right," Nick replied. The Texan's face was blank, and his tone flat. He looked up to meet Warrick's eyes, looking for understanding. "He said you were right."

Warrick nodded slowly, trying to get his head around what Nick was saying.

Nick licked his lips carefully before quietly continuing. "He said you were right because..." Nick averted his eyes. "He thought what we had -- what he did -- loving me. He thought it was stupid. Foolish." He looked up to meet Warrick's eyes again, but then stared off into the distance. "He regretted it. Us." Nick shook his head mechanically, and Warrick could see the eerie apathy in his friend's eyes. Nick gulped softly. "I really messed up."

"No you didn't, man," Warrick said quietly, trying to reassure his best friend. He was the only best friend Nick had left.

"Yes, I did!"

Warrick was slightly surprised by the outburst. "Nick..."

"That's what he died thinking, Warrick."

"You don't know that. He probably changed his mind by the time..." Warrick couldn't speak the words for Greg's last moments. "Well, by the time... you know..."

Nick nodded, but spoke, in an equally eerie monotone. "Those were his last words."

Warrick's eyes grew wide. "Wait -- what? His last words weren't about some conversation we had a year ago about Tina --"

Nick shrugged. "They were in there. He said a few other things. Told me to tell everyone sorry, say a few things to the rest of the team." He caught Warrick's eye again. "Those were his last words to you -- for you. 'Tell Warrick he was right about Thackeray.'" Nick looked down, ashamed. "He meant that -- he was telling you not to bother with love -- with stupid love, like what we had -- because it wasn't worth it. I was such an ass to him that he regretted what we had for five years."

"I'm sorry, Nick." Warrick felt like there was nothing else he could say. "But... cut yourself some slack. Maybe you were going through a rough patch. Maybe you just misunderstood what he said."

Nick shook his head. "You don't understand, man. I was _awful_."

Warrick couldn't get his head around the concept. It just couldn't be _that_ bad. "What? What did you do, Nick? What could make you think you were _that _awful? I mean, I've known you for years, man. I _know_ what kind of guy you are. And you're not a bad person, Nick. I _know_ that." Warrick shook his head in frustration. "You know which person's really been the most disappointed with you? Like ever?"

"Greg," Nick responded automatically.

Warrick grabbed his friend's hand as it again traversed the locker. With the hand grasped, he moved it toward himself, catching Nick's gaze in the process. "No, Nick. It's not Greg. Greg was never that capable of holding anything against people. If Greg Sanders was nothing else, he _was_ forgiving. It was in his nature. Which is different than someone else I know."

"Who?"

"You."

Nick crinkled his brows in apparent confusion.

"Nobody's ever been more disappointed with you than yourself. To the rest of us, you're a hero. To _you_..." Warrick shook his head, pausing. "To you, you're never good enough. You always seem to think you've got to do more. Maybe you're confusing what Greg thinks with what _you_ think. Maybe you're thinking that if _you'd _done something differently, Greg would still be alive. But maybe -- _maybe_ -- it was just a fluke. Maybe Greg was happy to spend the last five years with you, and it was just bad luck that got him killed. Maybe you made his last five years happy, but you just can't let yourself believe that you didn't do something wrong. That somehow you could have changed it. That somehow you could have done something different that would have kept him alive."

He looked over midway through his speech to see that Nick was still shaking his head mechanically. Warrick reached over to slap his friend on the head -- lightly of course -- and grab his attention back.

"You're wrong, Warrick. You're really, really wrong."

"No!" Warrick felt a hint of frustration building. "No, I'm not wrong! You expect too much from yourself! Don't! You _need_ to stop doing that! Don't you see that you're losing it, man?! Seriously, who else thinks you messed up? Other than you?"

"Sara."

"Sara?" Warrick shook his head in disbelief. "Sara?! _Sara_ thinks you messed up?" he asked in incredulity. "What could _possibly_ make you think that?"

"She told me so."

"What--" Warrick wasn't quite sure how to respond. "I'm gonna go have a talk with Sara and clear this whole thing up."

* * *

"Sara." Grissom cleared his throat. She sat alone in an evidence room, reviewing files with less of the spark than he used to see. "We need to talk."

She looked up, slightly startled, and nodded.

They hadn't talked in a long time. For some people, it would probably be odd, but they'd always been that way. Neither was a person of many words, at least not spoken. Sara told him that before, when she had at first lusted after him, it had been the adrenaline -- the romance and the power and the excitement of dating such an intriguing, intelligent man. He had been quite flattered.

Now, though, and for the past few years, she said that her favorite part was the silence. His was too. Both genuinely liked that they could spend an afternoon together -- assuming they actually had time off -- just sitting in the same room in silence, as each sat immersed in a different book, play, magazine, or whatnot. It was peace and security. Safety. _And_ love. Exactly what Sara had always wanted.

They talked when they wanted to talk. Ate when they wanted to eat. Together, they were too jaded individuals, hiding together from the world. But still with love. That's at least how it _had_ been. He _thought_ that that was how it had been, but then Sara had left. And now she was back, and he was overjoyed. But he knew something was different. He had pinpointed her absence as the cause for all the problems -- those intangible wrinkles in _everything_ -- at the Lab. But, as it turned out, that wasn't it at all. She had come back, and nothing had gotten any better. The only difference was that the other armchair, next to his in the living room, was again often filled. But that was only when they both had time off. These days, that was rare.

Today was one of their only days off. It had taken a great deal of pleading with Ecklie -- pleading which made Grissom respect his significant other all the more, given her hatred of the Lab's Assistant Director -- to get all of the night shift CSIs _and_ most of the lab rats _and_ a handful of detectives, including Jim Brass, off of work for the whole day, day and night included, so that they could all make the funeral without accruing significant sleep deprivation in the process.

"Gil?" He looked back at her, startled. She always seemed to catch onto his trains of thought at the oddest moments. "You wanted to talk?"

He nodded and gestured for his office. She followed.

They made quick work of the walk down the hall. He loved her long stride, though he could tell some of it had been lost in the past few months, or perhaps even in the full past year.

She reached his office first, and it was his job to shut the door and take a careful step around her so as to reach his own chair, safely hidden behind the desk.

"What's up, Gil? If it's about the Latsky case, I swear I'm on top of it."

Grissom crinkled his brows. "No. No, it's not about the case. It's about you -- about us."

"What about us?" she asked, her face a strange conglomeration of humor, seriousness and a handful of other emotions. She was never the most emotive, but he had grown familiarized to picking up on her feelings through the small glimpses offered.

He cleared his throat and looked bravely up into her eyes. "You've been back for a month. You just came back. When I called you five weeks ago to ask you to come back, you didn't. Then you just... changed your mind. I don't understand why. And, more than anything, I don't know how long you're going to stay."

Sara shrugged. "As long as I need to."

"Why?"

She glanced sidelong to the right -- a move that was not missed by Grissom. He could see the lie she was contemplating telling. He was relieved to see her gaze change courses -- to know that she elected to tell him the truth.

She bit her lip. "Someone I care about needed me."

"But what if they never stop needing you?"

She turned her head to the left this time -- he knew she was going to tell the truth. "I don't know."

* * *

"So..."

Wendy turned around, recognizing the tone in Mandy's voice. She kept up her own professional poker face. "I have prints that I need you to run."

Mandy glared. "You know that's not what I meant."

Wendy rolled her eyes and glared back. "Fine. What do you want to know?"

"What do you _think_ I want to know?" Mandy asked, exasperatedly. When Wendy didn't respond, she rolled her eyes and continued. "Your vacation with Nick Stokes."

Wendy blinked. _Uh oh._ "What about it?"

Mandy stared back at her, looking almost hurt. "Details? I thought it was part of girl code to always share this kind of stuff. Being the only two girls in the Lab -- or at least of the lab techs and all."

Wendy nodded. "Fine." She hesitated, almost feeling bad for the upcoming deceit. She hadn't quite realized when she'd started the case how many people she would need to deceive. She knew it should have crossed her mind that lying to at least some of her fellow techs would be necessary. So far, Archie probably knew the whole story, but that was because Archie -- stealthy eavesdropper that he was -- knew everything that ever happened in the Lab.

"I'll give you the details of the date if you can get these printed." She handed Mandy the bloody handkerchief that had been found on the robber's body, along with the snub-nosed revolver.

"OTJ," Mandy read, carefully studying the first item. "I'll see what I can do."

"Thanks," Wendy said as she walked out. "Give it to Hodges once you're done!"

Mandy didn't seem to realize that she'd been conned, at least a little, until Wendy was already out the door of the lab, at which point the print tech yelled out the door: "Hey! Details?!"

Wendy grinned and continued to the next lab in line for evidence from Juárez.

Hodges had received the samples from the first bloodstain. As far as he knew, they could have been sent by another lab or something. So far, he had no reason to believe that there was anything suspect about them. He had just received results bearing the official Lab seal, and was required to run them. Sending them early, however, guaranteed that they would be run quicker.

Hodges was staring hard into his microscope when she arrived. A sudden mischievous mood caught her, and Wendy tip-toed in, creeping up behind him.

Hodges jumped back when she tapped him on the shoulder. Wendy held the microscope in place so that it didn't jar as he pushed back. She saw a glare materialize on his face, but it turned into a smirk when he looked up at her.

"Simms. What brings you here?" he asked, quickly recovering.

"Trace on my blood swab. What else?" she asked.

"Oh, you really think that's all I'd have?" Hodges turned around, putting a leisurely hand on the lab table. "I'm David Hodges, trace extraordinaire."

Wendy rolled her eyes. "Of course you are."

Hodges continued on, ignoring the quip and reaching for papers. "Being, as stated, David Hodges, trace extraordinaire, I have _far_ more than just trace on your blood sample."

"And what would that be?"

He began flipping through papers, which he kept just beyond Wendy's reach and eyes. "Well, I have not only said trace, which, I should add, took hours to isolate and track and --"

"Cut to the chase, Hodges."

He glared back, looking slightly affronted. That alone surprised Wendy, as she figured Hodges was more than used to having his obsequious monologues cut off.

"Fine," he replied shortly. "I have DNA results as well."

"DNA?" Wendy looked at him with surprise. "Converted to the good side, have you?"

Hodges did something between a smirk and a chuckle. "In your dreams, Simms." He looked down bashfully, as if contemplating something, before continuing. "_Anyways_ --"

"You know it should be any_way_, Hodges. Grissom would be ashamed." Wendy just couldn't help herself on that one.

Hodges looked up with yet another glare. "And what's that supposed to mean?"

"Huh?"

"Why would Grissom be particularly ashamed? And why do you think _I_ care that he'd be ashamed?"

"Because you're a hopeless kiss-ass."

Hodges looked genuinely hurt -- almost -- before looking up with another glare.

He cleared his throat. "Any..._way_, your results came back as follows."

He reached over to the counter to lay out a variety of samples and swabs, all surprisingly neatly labeled.

"The first blood sample came back unknown female."

"First?"

"First."

"But I only sent you results from one blood pool," Wendy said, recollecting back to the first blood pool she and Nick had come across, right before meeting the first robber.

"Yes, but, being the thorough CSI _wannabe_ that you are, you swabbed it more than once. Which is why I got more than one result."

"CSI wannabe?" Hodges moved to speak, but she interrupted him before he had a chance. "I'll cut the debate and just get around to the second result. Which is...?"

Wendy could tell by the look on Hodges' face that he was trying to hold back laughter.

"Richard 'Richie' Hedd."

Wendy crinkled her brow. "That sounds familiar."

"He must have gotten teased as a kid," Hodges sagely inserted.

Wendy glared.

"You know what a nickname for Richard is, right?"

"Hodges, get a life. This guy's a criminal."

Hodges rolled his eyes. "Someone's taking their work too seriously."

"Coming from you, I'll take that as... well, nothing. Because at least I'm not sucking up to Grissom."

"Oh right. You're just sucking up to pretty-boy Texas instead?"

Wendy looked back, startled. "What?"

"Goin' on a nice vacation with Nick Stokes, huh?"

"What?" Wendy shook her head, disregarding the whole train of thought. "That's none of your business. And I'm back now regardless."

"Ah. I see. So there was trouble in paradise." Hodges' face lit up in an epiphany. "Hey! That's why you sent me a sample while you were on vacation! You got it at the Texas ranch or something. You set on convicting Nick of something?"

"What? No! And I have no idea where you get your ideas, or how your logic works. I found a sample _before_ I went on vacation."

"And so that's why the trace comes back to a type of soil only found at least 100 miles south of Clark County?"

Wendy glared at Hodges, realizing that he'd caught on to at least a little of her work.

"You have to tell me _something_. Otherwise I'm not telling you anymore about Mr. Dick Hedd."

"His name is Richard, and his nickname was _Richie. _And yes, I went to a location at least 100 miles south of Clark County," Wendy replied, carefully flexing her politicking muscles.

"More. Tell me more. You're having me run something, and it's clearly not for a case." His face turned serious. "And I don't _really_ think you're trying to accuse Nick of something."

Wendy bit her lip. "Hodges. I really can't tell you. But I need you to trust me on this." She thought for a moment. "Consider it payback for Mindy Bimms."

Hodges glared. "Fine. Although I would have trusted you anyways -- any_way_."

Wendy smiled. "Good to know. So Mr. Hedd?"

"Arrested for sexual assault in 1986. Served 20 years. No parole. It's noted on his record that he missed parole because he kept beating people up while in jail. Or at least _trying_ to beat people up. Apparently, at 5'6" in a men's penitentiary, trying that isn't terribly intelligent."

"So he's either really stupid, or someone told him to do that..." Wendy thought aloud.

Hodges shrugged. "Sounds likely."

"Any known associates?"

"In prison, his known associates were Sam Bigsby, Julian Kozlov and --"

"Ariel Marvin."

Hodges looked up, surprised. "Yes," he said, reading from the sheet of paper. "Ariel Marvin."

"Ari, Biggs and Julian..."

"If you say so."

That was when something clicked in Wendy's mind, as she thought back through all of the details of the case. "Can I see the printed DNA profiles for the female unknown and for Richie Hedd?"

"Sure," Hodges said, handing her the print-out. "Whatever floats your boat."

"Thanks Hodges. For the results and for doing my job. Or one of my jobs."

Hodges nodded. Wendy knew by now not to expect a 'no problem' or the like from David Hodges. Humility wasn't his strong suit. She still wasn't exactly sure why he'd gone along with helping her, not just in the trace for her case, but in the DNA as well. _Oh well_,she thought. _I have other things to think about right now_.

"I've got some other samples for you to run, while you're at it."

He nodded, and she handed him the rest of the items she'd found on her mission to Juárez -- the second set of bloodstains, the semen sample and the revolver, along with two samples of the blood that she'd carefully scraped off of the handkerchief.

"DNA too, or just trace?" Hodges asked.

"Both, if you don't mind."

Wendy looked more carefully at the revolver, noticing an item she hadn't seen before. She stared more carefully at it, before being interrupted by Hodges clearing his throat.

"There's also a piece of fuzz or something on the revolver. It's probably nothing, but run it anyways. Any_way_."

He nodded absentmindedly as he got to work.

_Again, surprisingly docile_, though Wendy, as she paged Nick and set off with the results toward the locker room.

Nick stood in the doorway as Wendy reached through her locker for the file.

She quickly found the folder from Lenora and smiled.

Richard 'Richie' Hedd and the corpse known as John Doe #76 were one and the same dead man, and Jane Doe #89 was in fact a match to the unknown female source of the first bloodstain from the maquiladora, making things at least a little more clear, but also that much more confusing.

* * *

"What the hell did you tell Nick, Sara?"

Sara looked up from the evidence table.

"Catherine didn't already tell you?" Her voice was cool and calm. "You're not going to get any different results from me than when she came and yelled at me." She seemed to catch the look of slight confusion on Warrick's face -- showing that he didn't know about any similar conversation with Catherine. "I'll tell you the same thing I told her. Nick needs to get over Greg. It's that simple. And I told him that."

"You _really_ think it's that simple?"

"Yes."

"It's only been two months. And you think Nicky can just _get over_ him?"

"Yes."

Warrick shook his head. He didn't understand. "They were together for years, at least from what I've heard."

Sara shrugged.

"Look me in the eyes, Sara. Look at me. Look at me and tell me why you're here, and why you're doing this to Nick."

Sara met his gaze with a glare. After this many years, he knew the one. The patented Sara-Sidle-defensive-glare. She didn't respond.

"You told him more than that. You told him more than just to get over Greg."

Sara shrugged, and her defensive glare persisted.

Warrick Brown rarely got angry, but this was a unique occasion. She'd just come back, and messed with the people in his life. "What else did you tell him, Sara?" His voice was angry, frightening and everything else he wanted it to be.

She seemed to consider her words before speaking. She opened her mouth and licked her lips in thought before closing them again. Then she finally met his eyes. "I told him what he and Greg had was imperfect."

Warrick let out a heaving, frustrated sigh. "And what makes you think _you _know that? What makes it _your_ place to judge?"

Sara leaned forward, and he could see the fire in her eyes reignited. "You wanna know how I knew? You _really_ wanna _know_ how I _knew_?" He could see her voice raising and her eyes growing almost wild -- but just almost.

He nodded, though he didn't really need to. She was speaking again before his head stopped moving.

"I knew because _I_ was the one to talk to Greg. _I _was the one that Greg turned to when everything was going wrong. _I_ had the shoulder to cry on every time Nick broke his heart."

Warrick could see the emotion in her voice, and the rationality of her explanation. But it still didn't fully answer his question. It wasn't enough of an excuse. "Why did you tell him that though? After Greg was already dead? You think telling him he was a bad boyfriend is going to make anything better?"

"What I think is that he needs someone to give him the kick in the ass to fix things. And it's clear that nobody else is doing that."

Warrick shook his head in astonishment. He couldn't believe her. "That's not a good enough reason. It's only been two months."

She glanced away, letting the defensive glare drop instantaneously. And it dawned on Warrick. "That's how long it took you to get over Grissom." It wasn't a question. Not at all. He could see the answer in her eyes before he even spoke.

She nodded anyway in response. "This isn't about me and Grissom."

"Then why are you here, Sara?"

She shrugged, and her defensive glare hadn't rematerialized yet.

"That's not a good enough answer."

She didn't say anything, and just continued to stare off into the space by her side, just under Warrick's shoulder. She clearly couldn't quite meet his eyes.

Warrick felt his temper growing, and rightly so. "So what? You came here just to screw with us? To make Nick feel guilty, and to swing Grissom around for another loop? What is your _problem_, Sara?!"

She shrugged, and he could see a soft piece of moisture accumulating in a blink of her eyes.

"I can't say."

He shook his head, and left the room in angry defeat.

* * *

"So, how does this help us with Greg?" Nick asked, not quite happily.

"Well, we at least know a little more about one of the men that killed him. Specifically, that he was probably killed shortly after raping and killing Jane Doe #89. We know that he was beaten to death and then shot post-mortem with a snub-nosed revolver."

"That doesn't tell us anything new about Greg. We don't even know that Richie died right after killing Jane Doe." Nick sounded so defeated.

"Then what should we do, Nick?"

"Nothing."

She looked up, confused. "What do you mean, nothing?"

Three sentences caught Wendy completely off guard. "I mean we should do nothing. Call it off. This was a bad idea."

"W-- what?!" Wendy stuttered for a few seconds before regaining thought. "Just call it _off_?! After all of this work? After I _seduced_ an FBI guard so that you could _steal_ the case file? After we used up our vacation hours to drive down to _Mexico_? After -- after meeting those horrifying robbers?"

Nick didn't seem to notice her use of the plural in reference to the robbers. He didn't know about her meeting with Ari. She couldn't help wondering again just how much he was hiding, and she wondered if his sudden reluctance to pursue the case had anything to do with the last four lines she'd heard uttered at the maquiladora -- Nick clearly speaking to someone. She hadn't had the guts to ask before, but now everything was on the table.

"Yes. Let it go."

Wendy let out a loud growl of exasperation. "It's _Greg_! I thought he was your _boyfriend_!"

"He was."

"Then why are you just giving up?"

"Because it's time to let go." Nick cleared his throat, before repeating himself. "It's time to let go."

It just wasn't adding up. Nick had been gung-ho about the case before. Now he just stopped caring? It just didn't make any sense. And it left her wondering all the more about his mysterious conversation that night in the maquiladora. "What's going on, Nick?"

He looked back, puzzled. "What do you mean? All that's going on is that it's time to drop this case. All the things we've done so far are just proof of what a bad idea this whole thing was. We've _broken laws_, Wendy. And all we've gotten is just more encounters with dangerous men. This is a _bad idea_. I'm sorry for getting you into this whole mess."

She tried a different strategy. "Nick. If the positions were reversed, don't you think that Greg would have kept looking for closure for you?"

Nick smiled wistfully. "Yes. He would have. And that's why _we_ _need_ to drop this."

Wendy opened her mouth in surprise. She didn't quite understand his point. Nick had already left by the time she regained her composure.

* * *

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **Okay, I have two spoilers for future events in the story, though neither gives too much away unless you look carefully and do a bit of re-reading.

A note on the two clues from last chapter (Mary-Sue and the songfic): More clues about the songfic are in three even-numbered chapters toward the beginning of the story, along with Chapter 19. The Mary-Sue is in three odd-numbered chapters toward the end of the story. I've been debating how much information to give you guys about both of these clues, and elected not to give you the actual chapter numbers, aside from 19, as I didn't want to spoil anyone more than they wanted to be spoiled. So let me know if you'd like me to give you the actual chapter numbers. Also let me know if you have any guesses, be it about who you think the Mary-Sue, which song(s) you think are the basis of the songfic, or which chapters you think have the clues. All guesses are welcome, and I'm happy to give more hints ;)

Also, for those of you unfamiliar with Mary-Sues, I would recommend checking out the lively discussion on Mary-Sues at the fanfictioncritiquegroup. There is a link to this discussion on my profile page (FFnet sadly doesn't allow links in actual fics).

So what will Wendy do next? And what's going on with Sara? Guess away. And please review. This is a crazy stressful and hectic week, and I would love a review to pick it up ;)

Harper

* * *


	26. Los Políticos

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Sorry for the delay. The title translates to 'Politics'. Thanks to LaughableBlackStorm for beta, and to Atticus, SuzSeb, Praetor_Corvinus, Tuppencecat, longas91, Kris, YuugisGirl, LostLadyKnight, White_N_Nerdy, amber1979 and two anonymous reviewers for reviews on the last chapter.

Thanks especially to those who provided constructive criticism on the last chapter, as I really do appreciate all help in improving the story. I took your advice into account, though I can't promise that all changes will be made. Thanks in large part to such reader feedback, I have realized that author's notes on this story have been getting out of hand. As a result, I'm in the process of deleting excess author's notes in previous chapters and will be limiting author's notes in future chapters.

However, as previously noted, the pacing will not change. The full story summary and list of main characters are still on Chapter 1. All angles mentioned in said summary will be developed to my satisfaction in this story. Does this mean the story might move too slowly for some readers? Absolutely. However, I am unwilling to sacrifice any of my main characters' or storylines' development for the sake of moving the story along faster. I apologize to any readers who feel they were misinformed or deceived in any way with regards to this. However, everything that has happened in the story so far was there for a reason. Despite what the official description for this story on the site may indicate, Nick and Greg are not the only protagonists, nor does Nick's reaction constitute the primary plot.

If you would like more of an explanation, please leave a signed review or some form of contact information with an anonymous review. I promise I don't bite, but it is very difficult to provide answers to constructive criticism when reviewers don't leave any contact information. Seriously, I'm not gonna spam or attack you in any way if you leave contact information. I just honestly prefer to reply to that sort of thing individually, rather than in exorbitantly long author's notes.

* * *

**CHAPTER 26: LOS POLÍ****TICOS**

_SLAM_

Wendy threw the empty folder at the door.

Nothing made sense. Nothing.

She slammed the locker closed again.

"What am I supposed to do with this?! What the FUCK am I supposed to do with this?! How the fuckin' hell is it just supposed to line up into some pretty little explanation?!"

She had samples. She had matches. Somehow, blood swabs, a revolver and a handkerchief in the maquiladora, along with a confusing note from an equally confusing, enigmatic Mexican woman was supposed to add up to a solution. To an answer. But it wasn't adding up.

She glared at the items -- somebody else's items -- piled neatly further down the locker room bench.

_Greg Sanders. _

They were all Greg Sanders'. All there to commemorate him. His smile beamed up at her from the top photograph in the pile.

"Damn you, Greg! Why did you have to leave me with this mess? How the HELL am I supposed to live up to your footsteps?! How the hell did you go from DNA to making sense out of all of this freakin' evidence?! How?! How, Greg?!"

The photograph didn't answer. Greg just kept smiling.

Wendy slammed her head back against the locker and yelled in shock, pain and anger when her head hit the cold metal.

"This is supposed to be _your_ locker, Greg! This is supposed to be _your_ case! Why the _hell_ did I want to follow in your stupid freakin' footsteps?! I'm not you! I'm not!"

She didn't quite notice when the tears started. It had been _so_ long, and it was taking _so_ _much work. _She didn't remember the last time she'd slept more than 4 hours. And she was exhausted. Physically, mentally, emotionally, psychologically. She just wanted to go burrow away in her bed, away from everyone and everything that she was responsible for.

Wendy stared back at the folder -- back at Jane Doe #89. She thought of Lenora Hernandez, and of all the work that the older woman must, no doubt, have done to pull the evidence together for Wendy. She thought of all of the men and women that had sat crying in the morgue of the maquiladora -- the ones waiting for their own doses of closure. She thought of Greg. And then she thought of the puzzle that she had unearthed. She wasn't giving up. She was going to solve it.

Wendy Simms loved puzzles, and she loved people. She loved the idea of working hard to find closure for people that really needed it. And she realized that _that_, not some adventurous James Bond alter ego, was the reason she'd wanted to be a CSI in the first place. She would finish the case, with or without Nick Stokes.

She thought of Greg's smiling face -- of the closure his family had planned once they found his body. She had thought for a very long time that she'd never live up to Greg's footsteps.

"Damn you, Greg. I can be just as good as you. _You_ left this place on _this_ team! _You_ left this spot to fill. _You_ left this impossible shadow to live up to. Well, _screw_ you. I'm gonna live up to your damn shadow. I'm gonna prove it to you when I bring you home!"

* * *

Wendy approached the Lab front desk, exhausted. It was the day of Greg's memorial, and she wanted to use the extra time beforehand to make progress on Greg's case. It seemed like the most fitting means of memorializing him.

"Mrs. Simms?"

"It's _Ms._," she corrected automatically.

"You're Ms. Simms?"

She didn't really know who she was talking to at the front desk, and she really didn't care. A middle-aged man and woman. _Whatever_.

"Yes! I'm Ms. Simms! What do you _want_?" She hadn't meant to sound so rude. She couldn't help it. She was tired and cranky. Hodges had been processing more and more of her evidence, which meant that she _only_ had to do CSI trainee work _and_ Greg's case _and_ half of her normal DNA load. She hadn't seen her bed in ages, and she was tired.

"You're working our daughter's case?"

"That depends on who your daughter is."

"Maura Greene."

Wendy thought a moment before remembering. Maura Greene. The eight-year-old sexual assault and murder vic. Dumped in an alley. The case she'd been working when she caught Nick talking on the phone. When she'd found out about Greg's case.

"Yeah. Do you need something?"

"We want to know what happened to our baby."

"Well, I'm doing the best I can to get them. If you could just be patient --"

A hand caught Wendy's wrist, forcing her gaze to meet Mrs. Greene's. "Please."

Wendy looked away, uncomfortable. "I'm doing the best I can." She looked around anxiously for help. "And you guys really shouldn't be here. We're doing the best we can. Really."

The woman nodded. Wendy could see the tears in the woman's -- the _mother's_ -- eyes.

"I really am doing my best," she said again, though the words weren't necessary. "We'll try to find you some answers. Really."

"Have you ever lost a child, Mrs. Simms?"

"No. No, I haven't. And it's _Ms. _Simms. And I really have to go."

* * *

Warrick could hear the mumbling.

"I can't believe we have to work today. The whole night shift has the whole freakin' day and night off because of _Sanders'_ funeral? That same pansy-ass that cost us 2.5 mil? Nah. The one that's the reason every other person in this town thinks LVPD's set to kill black kids? That's just messed up."

"How'd he manage to get killed anyway? Someone run _him_ over with a truck?"

"Nah. The casino robbery-murder. You remember it. Y'know? At the Tangiers. Murder-turned-robbery-supposedly-turned-murder again."

"Supposedly, eh?"

"Well, they never found the body."

"Lemme guess. Sanders' body?"

"Yep."

"Go figure. I bet he's not really dead. I bet he helped put the whole thing together. He's probably sittin' nice an' cozy on some island somewhere, spendin' all the money he made off o' _our_ casino. Off of the money people pour in to _our_ town."

"I bet you're right. He never gave a rat's ass about Vegas. He kills a kid, sets loose a press nightmare on PD... But they're still givin' him a funeral or somethin.'"

A different voice chimed in. "You sure it's his funeral they have off for today?"

"I'm pretty sure. Can't think of another reason night shift would have off. And specifically that part of night shift. All the CSIs are off, along with a bunch of lab techs, _and_ only the cops that really worked with the CSIs regularly. Yeah, it's gotta be for Sanders."

Warrick had heard enough, and he moved from behind the door of the locker room. The detective and two beat cops inside didn't seem to notice.

"Stupid kid. He never shoulda come here in the first place. Took our money, _and_ killed a kid. And you _know_ he's responsible for the increase in call-ins for the west side. It's 'cause every black person in this city hates us, thanks to Sanders' runnin' over that James kid --"

Warrick cleared his throat, and the man who'd been speaking -- Officer Romero -- looked up. "What's up, Brown?" The two beat cops, Larry Saag and Joe Liskow, exchanged glances.

"What's up is you running your mouth about something you don't know anything about. Greg Sanders was a good man. And not every black person in this town hates him, or LVPD. A lot of us are tired of seeing our friends and neighbors, and their _kids_ gunned down and run down by thugs like Demetrius James. Most of us are tired of the violence just like the rest of this city. And the increase in call-outs to west Vegas has just as much to do with beat cops bein' too eager to shove kids up against cop cars and cuff 'em as it does with Demetrius James. I'd be willing to bet that it has _more_ to do with that than anything Greg Sanders ever did."

Warrick noticed that, at some point during the course of his speech, Liskow had quietly ambled away -- at least as quietly as a 250-lb cop could. Saag looked hesitantly over at his fellow cop, whom he looked ready to join. Romero glared up at Warrick.

"So whadd'ya got to say about the robbery then? How do _you_ think Sanders' body just disappeared?"

Warrick didn't notice the other person that had crept up to stand behind him.

"For your information, Greg Sanders stood by this city to his last second." Warrick smiled at the authority in Catherine's voice. _You tell 'em._

"Greg had been researching Vegas history for about a year. Because of that, he knew the combinations to the safe --"

"See. I told you! He gave it away! That's all casino money that could've gone to the city!" Saag blurted out.

Catherine rolled her eyes and shook her head. "They barely took any money, at least not in the grand scheme of things. Half a million each, which, _believe me_, is not very much in a big casino's safe. But either way, Greg _didn't_ give the combination up."

She stepped forward and looked Saag in the eye. He, despite the 6-inch and 100-lb difference between him and Catherine, looked demurely down.

"Greg put up with a _lot_ when they tried to get him to give up the combination. But he _still_ didn't give it up. I'd like to see _you _all tough it out as much as he did."

Catherine did a good job of keeping her voice steely, but Warrick, after this much time, could tell when there was emotion being held at bay.

She continued. "They _stabbed _him, and they _beat _him, and they threatened to kill him." She looked away, for only a millisecond. "And then they _did_ kill him." Her eyes grew narrow and she glared both officers down. "They did all of that to get the combination from Greg, but he _still_ wouldn't give it to them. He was a good man. One of the best I've _ever_ known. And, believe me, I've known a lot in this town. Greg Sanders died for this town. Even on his chickenshit city employee's salary, even after LVPD threw him under the bus over the Demetrius James fiasco, he _still_ gave his life to protect something that was important to the Vegas economy. You have _no _right to talk that kind of crap about him."

Saag nodded and looked down at his feet uncomfortably. He waddled away. Romero glared at Catherine before following Saag out the door.

Warrick looked down at his coworker. "Nice work."

"Back at you." He was surprised to feel a pinch to his posterior right before she made her graceful exit. He smiled, and he knew it was the smile of a lovesick puppy. But he knew he had the best woman in the world. Or, rather, the best woman in the world had _him_.

"See ya at the service," she yelled from the door.

Warrick noticed Nick quietly push forward, from another row of lockers, and he knew his friend had witnessed the entire exchange. Life just kept getting harder.

* * *

"The second blood swab matched a Sandra Ortega," Hodges announced. "Detained and deported after trying to cross the border 15 miles east of El Paso."

Wendy nodded. She was glad he had processed the other samples so quickly.

He pushed forward a picture. The girl had dark wavy hair, and she looked familiar, but Wendy knew she hadn't met a Sandra Ortega before. _Curious. And where have I seen her before? _Wendy stared hard, trying to will an answer from the mug shot.

Hodges cleared his throat, regaining Wendy's attention. "I also found semen in one of your blood swabs, and managed to isolate it. It came back to an unknown male."

Wendy nodded. Hopefully, Lenora's file had a few clues for her again. She was really starting to wonder how in the world Lenora had managed to find all of that information. And why she was even giving it to Wendy. Wendy could only hope that her source was reliable, but Lenora had proved dependable thus far. Wendy looked down to see the OTJ handkerchief had also made its way to Hodges' counter.

"Mandy brought it to me in a huff," Hodges said, catching her staring at the handkerchief. "She said there was something fishy about it."

Wendy nodded. "What'd you get?"

"This is where it gets interesting. The blood on the handkerchief? It wasn't just blood."

"What else was on it? Ketchup?"

Hodges snorted. "Very funny, Simms. And no, it wasn't ketchup."

He held up the handkerchief, along with results which he held just out of reach and eyesight.

"With my expert skills in both DNA _and_ trace, I managed to separate two samples."

"Wait -- so one of them provided DNA, but through something that wasn't blood."

"Correct."

"Semen?"

"Nope."

Wendy pondered for another moment. "Sweat?"

"Nope, and I honestly don't know if I'd be able to isolate it if it was."

"Pshh. Not quite the expert, now, are you?"

"Despite popular opinion, I do have some trace of modesty, thank you very much."

Wendy laughed. "Glad to hear it. Good luck convincing the rest of the Lab of that."

"I was hoping you'd vouch for me," Hodges deadpanned.

"Fat chance."

He gave her his trademark smirk.

"So," she continued. "The DNA sample. If it's not blood or semen or sweat... Snot?"

"Wrong again. And why don't I just tell you now?"

"Fine."

He paused briefly, bringing the results forward. "It's tears."

"Tears?" Wendy looked up, slightly surprised. "How'd you even know how to separate the two, _and_ get DNA?"

"It's easy. I've watched you do it enough times..."

"Watched me..."

Hodges seemed to pick up on his faux pas in slow motion, as his mouth transformed into a neat 'O.' He started to back-pedal, but Wendy interrupted him with laughter. Hodges simply glared back, shamefaced.

Wendy calmed her laughter to get her questions in.

"So whose blood was it?"

"Owen Thomas Jared. Who was killed in September of 1985."

Wendy nodded, remembering what she'd read on Ari's file. He'd been arrested for Tam Jared's murder. Perhaps Ari had kept a trophy of the night. In the FBI report, Catherine had mentioned that she thought that it was the same handkerchief that had been at Tam Jared's murder scene.

"Whose tears then? Whoever it was must have been at the scene when the blood was fresh, not that it matters, since it's a closed case."

"Bruce Jared."

Wendy nodded. "Good to know. Though it won't help with Greg's case."

"Greg's case?"

Now it was Wendy's turn to backpedal. "Uh, it used to be his case. It's, uh, an old case. He -- he was really into it."

Hodges gave her a suspicious look, but nodded nonetheless. "I'll take your word for it."

"So why were you doing my job anyway?"

Hodges looked ashamed again, eliciting another chuckle from Wendy. She was having fun getting his goat.

"Sucking up to me because I'm almost a CSI, eh?"

Hodges nodded eagerly, and Wendy chuckled again.

"Well, while you're doing my job for me, you wanna process these also?" she asked, handing him her newest swabs of blood and semen.

"Sure. But, while I'm doing your job -- or both of your jobs for you -- I used some expert CSI skills."

Wendy raised an eyebrow.

"This _is_ Greg's case."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that there's still the actual trace that you originally sent to me."

"And the fuzz from the gun came back to Greg?"

"The fuzz on the gun was burnt hair. According to Bobby D, who I kindly implored to run the gun, it's consistent with getting knocked on the head with a gun."

Wendy was getting antsy waiting for an answer. "So it's Greg's burnt hair?"

"No, actually. It's Warrick's."

"I don't understand."

"Well, I'm sure you can figure it out."

"How'd you know it involved Greg?"

Her answer came from the doorway, where Archie now stood. "I watched Mandy run the print on the handkerchief multiple times. She didn't believe it really was his."

Wendy gasped. "You really are an eavesdropper."

"As you already knew." Archie smirked, though the darker content matter depleted whatever humor would have been implied in the expression. "Anyway, Greg's fingerprint was found in the blood that Hodges traced back to an unknown female. The same unknown female that the first blood swab you sent to Hodges came back to."

Wendy nodded, slightly shocked. "So Greg made the fingerprint while the blood was still fresh?"

"Something like that." Archie shrugged. "You're the CSI, so I guess you'll figure it out." He left the room.

Wendy nodded. Wendy loved puzzles. She couldn't figure out how they'd fit together, but she would. She knew it, and she had to.

"The blood is Jane Doe #89's," she said to nobody in particular.

"I'll take your word on it," Hodges replied.

Wendy nodded, still engrossed in the puzzle that was becoming more and more complicated by the minute. "Hodges?"

"Yeah."

"Don't tell anyone about this, will you?"

"Alright."

She was surprised by how easy it was to get him to cooperate. _Really_ surprised. "I mean it. Not even Grissom."

Hodges blushed. "You have my word."

"Good. I just hope your word is worth something."

"For you it is."

Wendy looked up, somewhat surprised. "That's a surprisingly sentimental and friend-like thing to say, David Hodges."

"Well, I've been known to surprise," he said with a smile.

Wendy left, winking to the spot that she knew held the DNA lab camera as well. Archie would get the same message.

* * *

Wendy looked over her evidence. From what she could see, it looked like she had evidence from four different crimes:

Jane Doe #89, who was likely raped and killed by Richard 'Richie' Hedd, who was then killed by someone else.

Warrick's burnt hair, likely from the original casino case.

Tam Jared's murder, from over twenty years ago.

Sandra Ortega, whose blood splatter looked at least a month or so older than Jane Doe and Richie's.

The first blood stain came back to Jane Doe #89. The bloodstain next to Jane Doe's came back to Richie Hedd. The sedentary blood splatter patterns indicated that Jane Doe had likely bled out, while the more varied blood splatter from Richie, along with the COD as reported at the morgue and in Lenora's folder, indicated that Richie had probably been beaten to death in the maquiladora after having killed Jane Doe.

That, however, was where things got complicated.

First of all, there was the fingerprint. Greg's fingerprint. How it had gotten into Jane Doe #89's blood and onto the handkerchief was entirely beyond Wendy.

And then there was the revolver. Richie had been beaten to death, but he was shot post-mortem, and _with_ the snub-nosed revolver that was, according to Bobby D, registered to a Tam Jared -- the man Ari had killed over twenty years ago.

The revolver was also linked to the casino heist because of the burnt hair -- Warrick's burnt hair. The bullets that had killed Manny Di Ricci -- the DB at the casino that Nick, Greg and Catherine had originally been sent to investigate on that fateful night at the casino -- also came back a match. Curiously, though the robbers had insisted on clearing the entire scene, their leader -- apparently Ari Marvin -- had also insisted that the bullets in the body be left, and the bullets, as a result, had been the only piece of evidence in the FBI file.

Tam Jared's case was already closed and off the books, so she could ignore it.

Then there was Sandra Ortega. She was represented only by a bloodstain on the ground. No body. No murder weapon. Wendy could only guess that the scene was correct. But, at the same time, Wendy knew that Sandra looked familiar. And she knew that Sandra hadn't gone by Sandra. And, strangely enough, the thing that stood out most was the long, wavy black hair.

The trouble was piecing it together to tell her something about Greg. Richie was one of the assailants at the casino, so she now knew that he, at least, was dead. Greg had justice in that way. But that didn't account for the other three.

Ultimately, Ari was the robber that Wendy couldn't get out of her head. The way he spoke, the way he moved... there was something alluring about him. Paradoxically, even as he had terrified Wendy when they had met and when he had spewed out terrifying, hateful information about Greg's death, there was something _safe_, trustworthy even about the man with the worn black-leather jacket and the raspy voice. And Wendy just didn't know why.

She closed the file. She could hear the gentle patter of feet as much of the small night shift family made its way to cars, and then to the memorial service.

Wendy felt her frustration growing again, and rapidly. Little pieces wouldn't fit together. They _refused_ to fit together. _Nothing_ made sense. There was too much damn evidence. And she was gradually losing her cool. She foresaw another breakdown in the locker room in her immediate future. Breakdowns weren't a part of Wendy Simms' character, but perhaps they were simply a key characteristic of anyone under as much stress and suffering through as much sleep deprivation as she was. She felt the tears escaping her eyes yet again. Nothing added up anymore than it had a few hours ago, when she'd first lost her cool. Now she had _more_ evidence. _More _stuff that didn't add up.

She just didn't get how they did it. She wasn't normally a terribly pious person, but she hoped that, if Greg Sanders was in heaven somewhere, he could come down and be her guardian angel for the day. If Greg were to be her guardian angel, he'd probably whisper advice loudly in one ear while playing Metallica loudly into the other. She couldn't help laughing at the thought. It was so sad how it had all come to this, she thought wistfully.

* * *

"Simms."

She had almost made it out of the hallway and back to the Trace lab. She turned around to see Ecklie.

"Mr. Ecklie?"

She could make out the small curt, almost apologetic, smile that came nowhere near reaching the rest of his face. "We need to talk."

Wendy gulped. Just what she needed. More people who wanted more from her. "Sure. What is it?"

"The Greene case."

Wendy bit her lip. She had been looking through evidence from that case. "We got fingerprints and DNA off of the girl's backpack. Both matched a local, Paul Komoroski. He was arrested on suspicion of child pornography. Technically, he's not a sex offender because he got off for those charges, but he was in the books for a drug offense --"

"Yeah, yeah. No need to regurgitate what we already have. Vartann's questioning Komoroski right now."

Wendy tensed. Ecklie's brusque manner and rather rude reply already had her concerned that she was doing something wrong.

By some miracle, Ecklie seemed to catch that thought. "Don't worry, Simms. I can tell you're on top of things. Unfortunately, we've been getting pressure from the press and the parents. Taking any time off the case, even for a memorial -- and especially for the memorial of someone with a reputation like Sanders', for the whole Demetrius James affair... Well, having the whole night shift off for that when they could be working Maura Greene's case isn't exactly making the press, or the parents, happy."

Wendy nodded, realizing quickly what Ecklie wanted. "I'll take off. Skip the memorial."

Ecklie looked slightly stunned that she'd agreed so quickly, but the astonishment on his face quickly changed to relief. "Thanks, Simms. And for lab technicians -- Archie Johnson already volunteered to stay and help you, but I think you'll need more help than that."

Wendy nodded. "Leave me Hodges. I don't think he has the social skills to manage a funeral service anyway."

"You mean memorial service."

Wendy nodded.

"Well," Ecklie said, looking forward with anticipation. "Good luck."

The rest of the team could enjoy the memorial. But Wendy had the evidence, the lab techs and the rest of the shift -- between waiting for results on the Greene case, of course -- to figure out what to do about reconnecting the real last memories of one Greg Sanders.

She had her own memorial to construct, and the rest of the shift to do it.

* * *

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Okay, so I have a rather important question that has quite a bit of bearing on the next chapter -- Are you still able to keep track of all of the evidence? This applies more to Wendy and Nick's investigation, not Cath and Warrick's? I've spent the last week writing and re-writing scenes that incorporate all of the evidence, so that it's easier to keep track of, but I don't want to include those scenes if they're not necessary. So, do you guys still remember what's on the handkerchief, what the revolver was used for, who killed Jane Doe #89 and what Wendy knows so far about Sandra Ortega? It's clear in my mind just because I know what really happened with everything and because I've been writing and re-writing scenes incorporating them so many times this week, but I can never tell how clear it is for readers. So **please**, **please**, **please** let me know.


	27. Conmemorativo, Part 1

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Sorry for the delay (again). Same old excuses. Unbetaed for the moment, which is entirely my fault, as I ended up with about 20k words worth of Wendy scene rewrites and just finally got this new version sent out for beta. I'll post the betaed copy once it's back, but I know that I'm posting it as is now just so that it almost-kinda makes the weekly deadline. Many thanks to princessako, lostladyknight, QueenOfTheUniverse, CrayonTyrant, PugNTurtle, AZNsexinezz, Aussie, YuugisGirl, Appreciates_Lab_Rats, CrystallineSolid, CountToEight, longas91, Unity2008, Praetor_Corvinus, Atticus and SuzSeb for reviews on the last chapter! The input on the evidence was greatly, greatly appreciated ;)

Title translates to 'Memorial'. Enjoy!

* * *

CHAPTER 27: CONMEMORATIVO, PART 1

Wendy laid her chin against her elbow and stared at the evidence in front of her. Frustration and exhaustion had, together, given way to apathy. She wanted the evidence to solve itself and, provided it did not, she was resolved to continue her staring.

A pager interrupted her as her eyes approached a glazed-over half-mast once again.

_From: C Ecklie_

_To: W Simms_

_Message: Have Komoroski in custody now. Lawyer will arrive in 4 hours. Issuing press release now. Any info you want to add?_

Wendy groaned. She couldn't think of anything she wanted to add to the press release. She was relieved to know that Ecklie was taking care of it. Then again, she would rather have a case that didn't actually require a press release. For now, she was happy to be holed up in the Lab, away from a public and press that seemed content to gnaw away at her case -- and, should she give them the chance, her sanity, which she had little left of as it was, she suspected.

_From: W Simms_

_To: C Ecklie_

_Message. No. No new evidence. You have all of it._

Wendy sighed. No new evidence indeed. Hodges had the bubble gum, though she doubted it would show anything probative.

But she _did_ have new evidence. And, despite what Ecklie insisted in regards to the Greene case, today was _really_ about remembering Greg.

She headed to the locker room to extract her files.

As she swung open the locker room door, however, a flash of white and shiny shades flew out. Wendy paused and looked around. She was too tired, to the point that part of her didn't quite know if the flash had just been a figment of her exhausted imagination.

But she looked to where it had fallen. Paper never flew well. It always drifted haphazardly because of the large, flimsy surface, and, as a result, this particular paper -- or at least that's what it looked like so far -- had drifted further into her locker. She looked down to evaluate and retrieve it. She was relieved to know that it was not, in fact, a figment of her imagination.

She recognized the size immediately, along with the comparably glossy yet notably different textures of both sides.

A photo.

Wendy glanced back at the bench and realized that it must have been the source of the photo. Other pictures of Greg were still piled up on the bench, no doubt for some reason related to the memorial service. But would anyone really notice if Wendy took one?

In the photo, Greg -- covered in what looked to be marinara sauce, mustard, hole punched paper cut-outs and various other garbage items -- was glaring at the camera. She wondered how many trash cans he'd had to wade through to get to his present state of attire, or at least _present_ relative to the photo.

On the back, words were scribbled in familiar handwriting. Greg had often stuck kind notes on the evidence he dropped off for her, especially when he knew she was having a bad day. He'd just always been that kind of guy. So she knew his handwriting.

_Hardest case ever -- but guess who solved it? The great (and modest) DNA genius-turned-CSI-genius, through imaculate work? Damn Straight. _

She chuckled at the words. Trust Greg to use a word like 'immaculate'. And to misspell it horrendously. Hodges had to have spent at least an hour gushing about how Greg had misspelled 'fountain' that one time. Since then, the young CSI had built up a reputation for careless phonetic reasoning.

Despite his angry expression in the photograph, Greg had come out happy. It had all been worth it.

Wendy pocketed the photograph.

She tried to imagine what Greg would do. Where _he_ would start. He'd been so helpful before, in teaching her the ropes of the Lab when she'd first joined. Mia had given her a few helpful hints on Wendy's first day, before Mia set off for her new job. Once Greg had told her he used to be the DNA tech, he had been the one to show her the _real_ stuff.

That, if Grissom was glaring in thought and one finger was tapping, and he had resorted to _only_ quoting Shakespeare because he couldn't think of anyone else, then his stuff _had_ to be processed first because otherwise he might lose it.

That evidence had to be presented _quickly_ to Sara, who lived and breathed her cases in a fiery rush, but that she could be more round-about with Warrick, who appreciated patience, calm and actually taking the time to have _real_ conversations with people.

That Nick, Sara and Warrick were fine -- and often even amused -- when techs sucked up to them, but that Catherine and Grissom would tolerate very little obsequious behavior, though Catherine hid it better.

That Sara would eventually warm up to her once Sara had seen that Wendy was a strong woman dedicated to her job, much like the CSI 3.

That Nick did in fact have a sense of humor, and that she would see it eventually.

He had taught her how to run AFIS and CODIS at the same time, and exactly how to time them so they'd spit out results at the same time. He'd taught her how to tilt one of the Lab's more outdated (and, sadly, tilted) microscope so that the DNA sample wouldn't slide off.

And then when she said that she was planning on going into the field, he had been the first to encourage her. And he'd promised to help her get there. _Promised_ to help her train and learn.

Wendy took out the photograph again.

"I could really use some help right now, Greg," she spoke to the picture.

Wendy was exhausted. She wasn't sure what to do next, and she needed sleep. She was already seeing speckles in her vision -- the kind that hinted to her eyes that they really, _really_ needed to be shutting soon.

"Tell me what to do, Greggo. You _promised _you'd help."

She was struck with a strange case of déjà vu.

xxxxxxx

_"Tell me what to do, Greg! You promised you'd help!" she whined to the CSI 1. _

_He grinned at her, amusement written on his face. "I will," he replied, looking down at her evidence samples. "What exactly is it you _need_ help with?"_

_"These cases!" she replied in frustration, motioning to a corner of the room. It was the only corner of the DNA lab that didn't have actual lab equipment in it, which normally meant that it was the emptiest. Today, however, it was covered in papers and samples._

_Greg looked over at the corner, seemingly unsurprised. "Backlog," he clarified in understanding._

_Wendy nodded. "It's awful! I have no idea what to do. Grissom is working a high-profile case with Sara, and Catherine's like always annoyed with me because she and Sofia are working on a cop-killer, and I think Sofia's especially upset about it, which is weird because I pretty much never see Sofia upset, and I _know_ Grissom and Sara really need that high-profile case solved, and I saw it on television, and --"_

_"Wendy," Greg interrupted. There was no sign of impatience in his voice, which Wendy appreciated. "Calm down and start at the beginning."_

_Wendy nodded. She took a brief breath. "You know how many pages I've gotten from you and Nick?"_

_Greg crinkled his brow. _

_Wendy held up her pager. "Ten each. Nick fires one off every hour on the dot. And then _yours_ seem to come every time I'm in the middle of another conversation, or every time I feel like I'm _finally_ getting things under control."_

_Greg bit his lip and glanced down sheepishly in what constituted a rather adorable blush. "Sorry."_

_Wendy sighed. "It's alright. It's just getting... --"_

_"Crazy?" Greg asked, glancing up at her. _

_"Yeah. Crazy. Hectic. Everyone wants my time, but it's all the _same_ time. I thought I was getting pretty efficient at this, but I can't do them _all_ at the same time. Catherine's results need the GCMS, but so do Sara's. And so does Warrick's, and I've had his for longer. And Ecklie seems to think I should be using it for this day shift case anyway, and..." She sighed. "I just got off lunch, and I'm tired, and I think I have the flu or something, and..." She paused to eye her DNA predecessor. "How did you do it?" she asked. "How the heck did you make them all happy?"_

_Greg laughed, but it wasn't a mean laugh. "I didn't."_

_"But they all liked you so much."_

_He shrugged. "They respected me. They knew I was doing my job. They _should_ know _you're_ doing it too." He paused, looking slightly confused for a second. "Your job, I mean."_

_She nodded. "I wish."_

_Greg carefully pushed two microscopes together. Wendy started to protest, but he shushed her. "Don't worry. I know how many things I can fit in one part of this lab. And what it takes to knock them over." He chuckled. "_Trust_ me on that one. I've learned that through far too many trials."_

_Wendy rolled her eyes and laughed. She was proud that she had yet to break any lab equipment -- even a simple slide. _

_Greg got up to sit on the counter space he had cleared. "Why don't you tell me what you've got. Every case they've got you working on right now."_

_Wendy nodded. Simplification. A wonderful tool. "Well, Grissom and Sara have a high profile case. That washed-out movie star found dead at the Palermo. I have to run his blood, reconcile my results with Henry's in tox, run at least 20 bodily fluids of various sorts found at the scene. I already started on it, but it should take at least, say, three-quarters of shift, give or take._

_Greg nodded. _

_"They got _every_ possible sample that even looked like it could be related for that case. Because the guy's famous, I suppose."_

_"Makes sense," he replied. _

_They sat in a restful silence for a moment before Greg gently nudged her forward. "What's the next case?" he asked quietly._

_"Sofia and Catherine's cop case in Lincoln County. Apparently, they called LVPD in to investigate because whatever powers that be were concerned that there would be a few conflicts of interest within their own force. Apparently, their police force is small enough that pretty much everyone knew the guy that got killed."_

_Greg nodded. "Makes sense. One of the perks of living in the middle of nowhere."_

_Wendy smirked. "That's kind of harsh. Doncha' think?"_

_Greg shrugged, before raising his eyebrows in mocking arrogance. "Next case, Ms. Simms?"_

_Wendy rolled her eyes. "Okay. Next case is you and Nick's child case."_

_"Michael Danos, age 12. A-to-B student. Found beaten outside his middle school."_

_Wendy nodded nervously. "You guys do know how many samples you sent me?"_

_Greg looked back at her as if considering something for the first time. He glanced down at his hand to count out something -- probably the evidence -- on his fingers. "Well, umm..." he said, apparently giving up on counting. "There was... blood found nearby. A few saliva samples from old candy found nearby, right outside of the dumpster five feet from the body. What looked like some sort of powdered drug residue that looked like it might still have DNA from whoever inhaled it -- found near the dumpster also. A few samples from under his fingernails. We also checked the scratch wound on his cheek for an assailant's DNA. Nick thought he saw a fingernail there, and that got sent..." He hesitated. "Ten to twenty -- give or take?"_

_Wendy rolled her eyes. "Twenty-two samples."_

_"But..." Greg furrowed his brow in confusion and thought. He hastily counted on his fingers again. "But I only got --"_

_"A bunch of your samples yielded more than one source, at least at preliminary glance. I haven't had a chance to process many yet. The only ones that I have done so far came back to him, to his mother and to one of the lunch ladies -- which makes sense, since she would probably have helped put food in the dumpster."_

_Greg nodded. "It'll probably take you a while to process all of that."_

_Wendy raised her eyebrows in amusement. "Ya' think?"_

_Greg chuckled before sighing in annoyance -- probably more with himself than the situation as a whole. "Next case?" he asked with less than enthusiasm. _

_Wendy laughed at his suddenly glum demeanor. _That's what happens when you find out _you're_ part of the problem, not just the helpful friend_, she thought with another laugh. "Next case is Warrick's. I feel bad every time I see him because I know that he knows that his case is waiting and he's clearly trying to be understanding and patient, but I also overheard him trying to placate the family of the deceased, who were insisting that the richer white folks' murders were taking priority over their brother's murder, which may or may not be linked to drugs."_

_Greg nodded as Wendy took a deep breath. She needed to start breathing more between sentences, rather than letting whole speeches go in one exhalation. _

_"What's the actual _case_?" Greg asked. _

_Wendy crinkled her brow. "Scott Burling -- mid-fifties -- found dead in his home. Signs of a break-in and signs of cocaine residue. I've got just about every DNA sample found in his living room, kitchen and bedroom."_

_Greg nodded. "Which case did you get first?"_

_"Warrick's."_

_"Which case did you get next?"_

_"Catherine and Sofia's."_

_Greg looked at her expectantly._

_"You want to know which one I got after that?"_

_He nodded, his expression reading somewhere along the lines of 'Duh!'._

_"After that was Grissom and Sara's high-profile case."_

_"And then Michael Danos. Nick's and my case."_

_Wendy nodded. _

_Greg leaned in, putting Wendy on a somewhat excitable edge. "You know everything you just said?" he started. "About the circumstances of the cases, how annoyed every CSI is with you, or how much their case needs to be solved, or biases on which case is more deserving?"_

_Wendy nodded cautiously. _

_"Throw it out the window."_

_Wendy looked at him dubiously. _

_Greg repeated himself. "Throw it out the window." _

_When her expression didn't change, he continued. "I'm gonna repeat something a very wise man once told me."_

_Wendy chuckled. "Your Papa Olaf?"_

_Greg beamed, but responded in the negative. "No. Actually, Grissom."_

_"Okay..."_

_"I was overworked with everyone sending me samples. Quantico even sent stuff they needed to be processed -- still don't know quite why that was."_

_He glanced at Wendy to check that she was still following. She gave a small nod, and an attentive stare, and he continued. _

_"Everyone was on my case."_

_"Cut to the chase, Greg."_

_Greg laughed. "He used to tell me that also." He cleared his throat. "He told me that this is _my_ lab. Not anyone else's. _I_ set the rules. _I _decide where I start."_

_Wendy nodded._

_"And you know where I decided to start?"_

_"I don't know," Wendy replied, humoring him. "Where did you start, Greg?"_

_He didn't seem to notice the sarcastic tone. "I started at the beginning -- after doing Grissom's sample of course, because of his sagely advice. And, since then, I've _always_ started at the beginning._

_"Everyone is always trying to convince you that their cases are more important. No matter how much they all say not to empathize with our victims, we always end up doing it anyways. We can't help it. It's what makes us human. There are very few sociopaths working in LVPD -- at least not in CSI. Though Grissom can be scary sometimes." The last sentence seemed to send Greg off into his own train of thought -- one taking place in his own head. _

_Wendy cleared her throat, and he looked up, startled. _

_"My point," he said. "Is that..." He paused again, furrowing his brows again. "What was my point?" he asked, seemingly perplexed. "Oh, yeah! My point is... --"_

_"You want a drumroll?" she quipped._

_He treated her to a cheeky grin. "No. I'm good. I provide my own drama and music. My life is awash with --"_

_"Greg?"_

_"Oh. Oh, yes. My point. Is. Start at the beginning. Everyone's always trying to tell you that their case is more important. But it never is."_

_He leaned in intently. "I mean it, Wendy. You have to understand that. Nobody's case is _ever_ '_more important_'._ _We follow the law. And one of the beautiful -- though sometimes frustrating -- things about the law is that everyone _is_ equal under it._

_"If we are to keep our democracy, there must be one commandment: thou shalt not ration justice."_

_Wendy stared at him, perplexed. _

_"Judge Learned Hand. Don't ask me who he is. I have no idea. I got that quote over the course of trying to impress Grissom."_

_Wendy chuckled. _

_"But what it means is that you can't put any case first. At least based on which ones _you_ think are more important. Under the law, every crime -- and every victim -- is equally important."_

_Wendy nodded. She still didn't quite see how Greg's happily philosophizing banter and fluffy quotes were supposed to help alleviate the crunch of cases and evidence stockpiled on her countertop. _

_He continued nonetheless. "It means that it's never really your choice which case comes first. And, more practically, if it was, you'd spend your day stressing over weighing the relative importance of each case. Which would be pointless and totally unproductive. _

_"Which means, overall, that the best thing to do is not worry about which ones _seem_ more important. So you do the most logical thing -- start at the beginning."_

_"Start at the beginning?" she asked. "_That_'s all you have to tell me?"_

_"Yes," he said, beaming -- and seemingly oblivious to her glare. "Start at the beginning. It's the only meritocritous -- wait, no -- meritocro_-- meritocratic!_ It's the only _meritocratic_ thing to do. Start with the first case you have. The first one that took place. Each victim gets justice as quickly as you can get it to them, but there's no cutting in line. Every case has to wait in the same line, and none get to cut in front. Warrick's case happened first, and I'm assuming he gave it to you first?"_

_Wendy nodded._

_"Then do his first." He beamed again before hopping up and off of the counter. "Start at the beginning," he repeated for what seemed like the twentieth time so far in the conversation. "It's a rule, young grasshopper, that will get you far."_

_Wendy nodded, brows raised, as the slightly crazy ex-lab tech made his way out of the lab that was now hers -- before crashing into both a pacing Nick and an irate-looking Sara. She was relieved to see Greg dragging both further away from her lab. She had to admit -- Greg Sanders was nothing like the person she'd first judged him to be. _

_Wendy sat down and got to work on Warrick's samples. _

_Starting at the beginning..._

* * *

The front row was always reserved for family. Always.

Greg's mother sat in the front row. Her face was dry, but her eyes were cold and dead. Beside her sat Greg's stepfather, Dave. Nick was surprised to see that Greg's father, Harry Sanders, had made it as well.

He knew that Harry had never been a major presence in Greg's life, though Greg had always wished it otherwise. Harry had spent most of Greg's childhood working non-stop, and Nick got the feeling from talking to Jan that the man had just never cared that much for his son. Nick felt a familiarly unpleasant sensation in his stomach to think that he had ignored Greg in much the same way that Harry had. Jan and Harry had divorced Greg's senior year of high school, and Dave had joined the family two years afterward. Greg wasn't -- or, rather, _hadn't_ been -- terribly close to either man, though Dave had always shown genuine paternal affection for his stepson.

The three older parents sitting alone in the front row, with Harry off to the furthest edge of the pew and Jan and Dave in the middle, made for an odd and barren picture. Nick remembered every funeral he'd been to before back in Texas. He remembered when his grandmother had died, and family packed five pews back. He remembered his mother saying, teary-eyed, that it was because his grandmother had touched and created so many lives. He also remembered going to the funeral of a cantankerous middle-aged neighbor who had died alone of a heart attack. The pews had been near empty. Nick had wandered into that funeral half out of southern courtesy and half out of curiosity.

The contrast with the one almost-empty pew for Greg's closest family was bleak, and it stabbed Nick in the heart. It was as if Greg _hadn't_ touched or created life in the way that Nick's grandmother had. Sure, Greg hadn't had a chance to create life. Then again, he seemed set on sticking with Nick in the long run. At the rate they'd been going, there never would have been kids, adopted or otherwise. They had just never been enough of a couple. Every time someone (always Greg) had brought up the future, it had been laughed off (mostly by Nick). The assumption had been simple cohabitation.

It broke Nick's heart to know that Greg had always wanted more. He remembered back to every time he had shut Greg down -- be it in relation to going out, having a future or saying something as simple and meaningful as 'I love you' -- something Nick had never had the guts to say. Every time something like that had happened, Nick could remember the hurt look in Greg's eyes.

Worst of all, Nick could remember how happy it made him -- how strong it made him feel every time he told Greg, more or less, that he didn't need the younger man. It made him feel superior, strong and masculine. He wasn't weak enough to need anybody. And Greg? Greg had been weak. Greg _needed_ love. Greg _needed_ romantic silliness and that sort of thing, and was weak because he let himself get hurt again and again and again. Because he let himself care that much. Nick didn't. Nick was better than that.

Nick knew now that he wasn't, and that there was nothing wrong -- in fact that there was everything _right_ -- about needing someone. About being able to say 'I love you' to someone other than family members. In reality, he realized as he looked back, Greg had been the brave one. The strong one. Greg had been the one capable of putting himself out there. Of putting his emotions out on the table, and his heart in someone else's hands.

Nick remembered every time he'd seen Greg cry. The younger man would sneak out of bed when he thought Nick was already asleep and go to the living room couch. And then Nick would wake up because something or other was wrong -- he could never quite admit that what was wrong was that someone was missing from the bed -- and see Greg's face burrowed into the couch as the younger man tried to conceal soft, surreptitious tears. Sometimes -- much of the time -- Greg seemed to notice Nick's sudden presence in the room. Most of the time, he wiped his eyes and reached for a kleenex to blow his nose, employing the 'just a cold' excuse in so many words. But Nick always knew that that wasn't the reason. He knew that most of the times Greg cried came shortly after Nick had shut the younger man down.

It broke Nick's heart a little more every time he thought of the way Greg had tried to hide his crying -- trying to hide his 'weakness' from Nick. Trying to hide the fact that he really did care that much about Nick.

It had never been about sexuality, despite the frequency of that topic in Nick and Greg's fights. Their arguments often circled the issue of Nick coming out of the closet, but that had never been what it was really about. It had just been the tip of the iceburg. Had Greg been a woman, Nick doubted that the result would have been very different. It hadn't been about admitting he was with Greg. It had been about admitting that he was in love with Greg at all. It had been about having the courage to say 'I love you, and I need you, and I want to spend the rest of my life with you.'

Nick had never said any of those things. Nothing hurt him more than knowing that Greg would never know. That Greg would never know that Nick _did_ love him and need him, and that if Nick could, he _would_ spend the rest of his life with the other man. It broke Nick's heart to know that he would never get another chance to tell Greg. That Greg died thinking that he barely meant anything to Nick -- that their relationship was just one of convenience and release.

Nick still didn't understand why. Why Greg had decided to love Nick. He knew that 'decisions' weren't exactly the factor in loving someone, but he couldn't understand how Greg had _kept_ loving him for five years. Surely the younger man could have just left. Surely he could've found someone else. But he hadn't. Greg had stayed. No matter how many times Nick told him, in so many words, that their relationship didn't matter to Nick, Greg had still stayed. He had kept _giving_ and _trying_. And the more he gave and tried, the more Nick resisted.

Greg was -- had been -- a genius, yet Nick couldn't help thinking of a quote he'd heard from Grissom a while back -- that the definition of stupidity was doing something repetitively and expecting different results. Greg just kept trying, as if he'd expected to get a different result -- to get Nick to try too. And Nick had put down and mocked and ignored every attempt, dismissing Greg as naïve and foolish. Maybe Greg had been those things, to expect something different from Nick.

Sometimes Nick doubted that he ever would have changed had Greg not been stolen from his life -- that Nick ever would have been able to admit how much the younger man meant to him until the younger man was fully absent. As much as Nick wished he could get Greg back, he suspected that, had the casino heist not happened, Nick would have simply continued to take Greg for granted, indefinitely.

And now Greg was gone, Nick was there and heartbroken, and it was all too late for apologies.

But Nick saw that front aisle. Greg _wasn't_ like Nick's cantankerous neighbor. Greg _wasn't_ supposed to be the kind of person with three people scattered in the front row of his funeral. He wasn't the kind of person that had chosen not to touch and create life. He had been a kind, loving, brave and giving soul, and the empty front row did nothing to reflect that. It said that Greg had one mother who would miss him, one father who had been obliged to come but who had yet to shed a tear, and one stepfather who had gotten along with Greg at family get-togethers. It didn't speak to the love Greg had given freely and bravely.

Much of the Lab's night shift sat behind, in the second, third and fourth rows. Mandy, Henry, Bobby and Bobby's partner sat on one edge of the second pew. Given Greg's time as a lab rat, Nick realized that it was entirely possible that they, along with Archie and maybe even Hodges, had been the closest to Greg over the past decade.

Doctor Robbins sat with his wife, and Mr. and Mrs. Dave Phillips sat next to the older coroner.

Sara sat calmly next to Grissom. She looked more angry than sad, and it hurt Nick that there were no tears in her eyes. Nick could see the genuine sorrow in Grissom's surprisingly expressive eyes.

Catherine cried lightly, and Nick was surprised to see Warrick shedding tears. He'd always thought of Warrick as a brother-in-arms -- as another man too tough for tears and emotion. But Warrick, it turned out, was unafraid to admit that his youngest colleague had meant something to him. Lindsey sat next to Catherine and looked rather lost. The teenager, no doubt, wasn't used to being the stoic one.

Three of Greg's friends from college had made it. Brass, Sofia, some girl from swing shift, Vartann and another detective that Nick didn't recognize rounded out the memorial party.

Three family members, only one of whom had really known and loved Greg, three old classmates who Nick was fairly certain Greg hadn't talked to in years, 15 coworkers and four coworkers' family members. Twenty-five people. Twenty-five people at Greg's funeral, and only three in the front row. Only three "family" members, only one of whom really was family. That was all it amounted to.

Nick could see the tears running down Jan Sanders' cheek now. He could see her staring out over the empty first pew surrounding her. He could see her new husband consoling her, to little avail. He could see the same first pew that she saw -- the same pews that should have gone to showcasing the love given out so genuinely by her son over the years; to a spouse or children or _someone_ who was willing to admit that they'd really _loved_ her son. But there was nobody. As if Greg was a nobody. As if he hadn't mattered as more than a coworker. As if nobody other than his own mother had loved him.

And that killed Nick.

Nick rose from his seat next to Warrick. He could feel the stares on his back as he marched proudly up to the front row.

He could see the look of gratitude crossing Jan Sanders' tear-soaked face as he sat down next to her. He could hear the gasps from coworkers who hadn't known about him and Greg -- which was, of course, sadly, most of his coworkers.

He was sorry to admit that the other emotion on Jan Sanders' face was surprise. Because she hadn't expected him to come. She hadn't expected him to admit that her son had meant something special to him. She seemed, somehow, to understand the nature of Nick and Greg's relationship better than Greg ever did. That is, she understood that Nick would never be able to return Greg's love the way he should have. While Greg had been naïve and trusting and hopeful -- able to believe, again and again, after Nick burnt him again and again, that Nick would still some day just come out and admit his love -- Jan Sanders, Nick could tell, had realized long ago how foolishly optimistic her son had been. Nick looked down with shame.

Greg deserved better. Greg had always deserved better, and Nick couldn't help wondering again why Greg had naïvely kept up such ill-placed faith in Nick. In the end, it was for naught. Nick recognized his error, but it was too late to correct it. It was too late for Greg. Too late for _them_. Greg never heard Nick say 'I love you.' He never knew, and it was too late.

Nick and Jan cried into each other's shoulders for the man they'd loved and lost too soon.

* * *

Start at the beginning... Wendy scratched her head and stared at the photo and evidence again.

The beginning.

She traced back, making a list to try to re-orient herself.

_**EVIDENCE:**_

_OTJ HANDKERCHIEF_

_ -Presumably belonged to Owen 'Tam' Thomas Jared (Ari Marvin's first vic)  
_

_-Greg's fingerprint in Jane Doe #89's blood  
_

_ONE SNUB-NOSED REVOLVER_

_-Registered to Tam Jared_

_-Piece of Warrick's burnt hair caught in trigger  
_

_-Used to shoot Richie Hedd 5 times post-mortem  
_

_-Found at maquiladora near scenes of Richie Hedd's murder, Jane Doe #89's rape and murder and Sandra Ortega's possible rape and murder _

She felt like she was forgetting something. There were, of course, the other two scenes. Jane Doe's murder, however, wasn't as directly related to Greg's. Sandra Ortega's possible murder certainly wasn't. They just happened to take place in the same building that Richie Hedd died in. The building that happened to hold all leftover evidence of the crime -- at least all evidence that she'd been able to find.

Still, there was something else.

The bullets. They matched more than just the ones that shot Richie Hedd.

The missing item finally came to her, and she added it to the list, under 'SNUB-NOSED REVOLVER'.

_'-Used to shoot Manny Di Ricci'  
_

Wendy paused. Manny Di Ricci... The first DB at the casino. She had forgotten about him.

The DB that had prompted everything.

The man whose death brought the CSIs to the casino in the first place. Was his death related? Would it really be pure coincidence that _someone_ -- whoever it was (though the list of suspects was rapidly narrowing to four names) -- would kill a casino employee hours before four robbers came to that _same room_ to rob the casino?

Wendy knew that the answer was no.

_Manny Di Ricci. _

He was barely mentioned in the FBI report on the casino heist. Apparently the Feds had been too concerned with the _big_ crime -- the robbery -- to worry about the murder that had barely preceded it.

But that was their mistake.

CASINO EMPLOYEE OF 27 YEARS. 45 YEARS OLD. DIVORCED. NO KIDS.

That was all they'd written about him. She turned to her handy database, hoping that maybe he would turn up in CODIS.

And he did.

MANUEL DI RICCI

DOB: OCT. 3, 1962

DOD: MARCH 3, 2008 (MURDER UNSOLVED)

2006- ARRESTED FOR ASSAULT; CHARGES DROPPED

2003- ARRESTED FOR BATTERY; CHARGES DROPPED

1998- ARRESTED FOR ATTEMPTED ASSAULT; CHARGES DROPPED

1992- ARRESTED FOR ASSAULT; CHARGES DROPPED

1987- ARRESTED FOR MURDER; CHARGES DROPPED

1983- ARRESTED FOR ASSAULT; CHARGES DROPPED

1981- ARRESTED FOR SHOPLIFTING, ROBBERY; CHARGES DROPPED

A curious progression, Wendy thought. He had barely been an adult when he committed his first crime.

And the charges were always dropped. Wendy knew that she was looking at something sketchy.

Of all the charges, the first stood out. All the rest were violent crimes. But that one...

She clicked through, and was startled by the results.

CHARGED WITH SHOPLIFTING AND ROBBERY IN THE DIAMOND CLUB, SMALL CASINO OWNED BY SAM BRAUN AND MANAGED BY BRAUN'S AFFILIATE, BRUCE JARED

BRUCE JARED DROPPED CHARGES

The more clear things got -- the more evidence she found -- the less everything made sense.

But she knew it was an important clue.

She said a silent thank you to Greg and his pre-mortem words of wisdom.

* * *

There's one more chapter of the memorial to go, where two team members will give speeches about Greg, so don't worry about the seemingly inadequate-so-far memorial service. Please review ;) Any hypotheses? How confusing is the evidence so far? Less or more so than last chapter?


	28. Conmemorativo, Part 2

A/N: Thanks to CrystallineSolid, YuugisGirl, Atticus, QueenOfTheUniverse, SuzSeb, PraetorCorvinus and longas91 for reviews on the last chapter! Sorry for the delay. This chapter hasn't been betaed yet, but I'm posting what's done anyway. You may have noticed that the word count on the story has gone down, but that's only because of the author's notes that I've been in the process of eliminating, based on reader feedback. Excessive author's notes have now been limited and/or eliminated in the first 8 chapters, and I'm in the process of finishing the rest. The chapter title translates to Memorial. Standard disclaimers apply. This chapter is paced similarly to the last one, but I promise that things will start to speed up after this. Enjoy!

**CHAPTER 28: CONMEMORATIVO, PART 2  
**

"Greg Sanders was a part of our family."

Nick looked up to see Grissom beginning his opening remarks. Grissom, deficit of social skills aside, was a surprisingly good public speaker. His exorbitant reading habits, no doubt, fed charismatic, rhythmic and insightful speeches.

"Greg Sanders was a part of our family, and he can never be replaced. We all miss him dearly."

Grissom paused staring out into the audience.

"He was a dear friend, and like a brother to all of us." He intentionally avoided looking at Nick as he spoke the next sentence. "And so much more to many of us."

"He died trying to protect this city. He died because his choice was between physical pain -- possibly death -- and giving four dangerous men access to one of the city's greatest financial resources -- one that many Las Vegas citizens' lives depend on. Greg Sanders chose the city, and its people."

"He had a beautiful future ahead of him." Nick felt Jan Sanders give in to further tears at this. She had so many expectations for her son's future. It struck Nick how he'd never really thought about Greg's future. About any future with Greg. Greg was just _there_, in the present. Greg talked about growing old, and having kids, and spinning tales of all of Vegas's greats. But Nick hadn't ever really cared. It was just Greg. To Jan Sanders, it had been so much more. It shamed Nick to think of how distanced he was from Greg's life in that way. How the overall outcome -- this overall _person_ -- just hadn't mattered quite that much to him. He hadn't thought about all that Greg was capable of -- all that he could have become.

Now, there would be no tomorrow. Greg didn't have a future anymore. Twenty years down the line, Greg wouldn't _be_ there. Catherine would have changed, Warrick would have changed, Grissom would have changed, Sara would have changed. Even Nick would have changed. But Greg would remain. Static. Stagnant. He would never progress beyond 33 years old. Nick would age, but Greg would be young forever, because he'd never gotten to be anything else. Nick would age, and develop and progress. His life would move forward, and Greg... Greg would just become a photograph. Memories exchanged between friends, until they just forgot. Until new people would come into their lives and replace him. And he would become just a distant memory.

He would become a grave and some old photographs. Old memories. Flowers would grow old on his grave and, eventually, nobody would place them there anymore. Jan would die, having already buried her only son. And she wouldn't be there anymore to love and remember Greg.

Nick hadn't realized he was crying, or that it was his turn to speak, until Jan reached up to him. "Are you going to speak?" Her voice was soft and gentle, but a hint of desperation was barely veiled. "Are you going to talk about him? Remember him for everybody?"

Nick looked down at her and realized that the answer was yes. He was going to go up. And he was going to remember Greg Sanders. When everyone else had forgotten, he would still remember Greg. He would live as long as he could just to sing high praises to his lover's memory. He would stay at the Lab, and he would _live_, and he would never let the world forget Greg.

He stood up to speak, and to recollect, for what he knew would not be the last time.

* * *

Wendy stared at the sheet in front of her.

MANUEL 'MANNY' DI RICCI

_DOB: Oct. 3, 1962_

_DOD: March 3, 2008 (MURDER UNSOLVED)_

_2006- ARRESTED FOR ASSAULT; CHARGES DROPPED_

_2003- ARRESTED FOR BATTERY; CHARGES DROPPED_

_1998- ARRESTED FOR ATTEMPTED ASSAULT; CHARGES DROPPED_

_1992- ARRESTED FOR ASSAULT; CHARGES DROPPED_

_1987- ARRESTED FOR MURDER; CHARGES DROPPED_

_1983- ARRESTED FOR ASSAULT; CHARGES DROPPED_

_1981- ARRESTED FOR SHOPLIFTING, ROBBERY; CHARGES DROPPED_

And that last charge -- the first one on his rapsheet...

CHARGED WITH SHOPLIFTING AND ROBBERY IN THE DIAMOND CLUB, SMALL CASINO OWNED BY SAM BRAUN AND MANAGED BY BRAUN'S AFFILIATE, BRUCE JARED

BRUCE JARED DROPPED CHARGES

There was something more than suspicious about the man -- now, about _both_ men, Manny Di Ricci _and_ Bruce Jared.

She needed more information. Had Di Ricci perhaps been involved in the robbery in some other way? What else did the police have to say about him? What had prompted all of the dropped charges -- and what had led him to allegedly committing the crimes in the first place?

So many questions, and so few answers.

The first thing she did, though, was prompted by more advice from Greg: checking his file's recent view history. Often, a vic had been on file as involved in another more recent crime -- one that police hadn't had the chance to charge or convict on yet. Once she checked the view history, she'd know when, where and by whom his file was last accessed.

A checklist was stapled to Di Ricci's physical file -- the one that had existed before the days of the Internet. Countless detectives had signed off on taking the file out. Most of the dates listed were around the same times as his arrest. Only one was in a different year -- 1985. Nonetheless, that year was long past and irrelevant, Wendy knew, to her investigation.

The computer file history was more telling.

The most recent access date was four hours ago.

Four hours prior to Wendy's discovery.

Which meant that someone else in some branch of law enforcement knew something about Manny Di Ricci.

Wendy tiptoed into the A/V lab. She was unsurprised to find Archie and Hodges in chairs in front of a Star Trek episode playing on the main screen.

She sighed. That was when she heard the snore.

Looking more carefully, she could see the rise and fall of Archie's chest -- exactly what had prompted the snore -- and the circlets of drool edging out of Hodges' mouth.

Wendy stifled a laugh.

Archie seemed to sense her presence, and the snoring quickly stopped as he shot up.

"W-Wendy," he said, wiping fatigue from his eyes.

"Sleepy?" she asked teasingly.

He nodded. And then yawned.

"I was wondering if I could get your help on something."

"Sure thing," he replied, straightening himself out and stretching.

"I need you to trace the IP address on something."

"Okay," he said, nodding. She led him over through the A/V door and to the file, before pointing at the computer.

"I need you to trace the IP address of the computer that viewed this file four hours ago."

Archie nodded before sitting down. It took him a matter of moments.

"Is this some sort of test or something?" he asked.

"No, why?"

"It's not some sort of game you and Mandy are playing to test me?"

Wendy furrowed her brow. "No. Why would you think that?"

"Because the last hit was from the print lab. _Our_ print lab."

Wendy stared in shock.

"You gave Mandy evidence," Archie stated. "I saw her run the prints off of the handkerchief. The other piece of evidence was..."

"The gun!"

Archie thought for a second before nodding in reply.

"Manny Di Ricci's fingerprints were on the gun!"

Wendy rushed over to the print lab, with Archie now on her tail.

Before her laid the gun. It was tagged with color-coded markings designating separate prints. She checked Mandy's color coding.

Manny Di Ricci's prints were all over it.

She glanced more closely at them. It was clear that he had been handling the weapon multiple times.

She picked up the weapon and turned it over. Also color-coded were prints matching a Julian Kozlov and an Ari Marvin. Ten prints matched Julian -- one clear hand with all five fingers holding the gun twice. Five prints matched Ari -- one hand holding the revolver once.

Staring more carefully, Wendy could also see five distinctive smudges left by some foreign substance. A distinctive powdery residue, with each mark in the approximate shape of a finger.

"Gloves," she spoke aloud.

"Looks like that funny latex they used to use at the lab," Archie muttered.

Wendy turned around in astonishment. "That's _exactly_ what it is," she replied, eyes widening. And she knew _exactly_ where she had seen those gloves before.

_Ari Marvin_.

_"F-freeze. LVPD."_

_"Nice try Wendy." _That garbled voice again... She could still picture him.

A flower blossomed in her mind. White flower petals. Or were they wings? Their delicate form spun around in circles until she realized it was cotton after all. The picture expanded, and she recognized it as faded black leather intruded behind it. Expanding to show that shadow. His face was still hidden by the shadows. Only the flower showed. Just like it had that night.

_She was in the maquiladora, searching -- again. Shining her flashlight when she heard the noise. And there he was -- again. _

_In the worn-looking black leather jacket with a faded logo -- it looked like either white flower petals or wings -- over the right-breast pocket. _

_"F-freeze. LVPD."_

_"Nice try Wendy." His voice was garbled and raspy -- unnatural._

Ari. Ari, with the horrid garbled voice. And then a co-conspirator. Colleague. Whatever she was -- the woman that brushed up against him and never said a word.

_"A-Ari. You're Ari," Wendy said. "The other man -- the other robber said you'd help us find the body."_

_"Us?"_

_She nodded._

_"What constitutes this 'us'?"_

_"M-me and Nick."_

_Ari nodded. A feminine form brushed up against him and whispered in his ear. He whispered back and the woman stilled. Wendy could see the black wavy hair protruding from the woman's mask. Both wore dark, baggy clothes, along with gloves that almost looked like latex._

Again.

Latex. Wavy black hair.

_"Y-yes. Yes. I want to know how he died."_

_"Oh now, I was hoping you'd ask. He died slowwly" -- the man dragged out the word -- "and painfully._

_"But really, it was a simple death. He bled." He paused again, and again as if thinking hard. "Oh yes, and then he bled some more. And then," -- the man relayed his words as if he were telling a story and coming to an exciting edge-of-your-seat climax --"Then he just stopped bleeding."_

_Wendy gulped._

_"What did you do to him?"_

_Laughter. Garbled laughter._

_"Now don't you worry about that, hon. Let's just say we had fun."_

_"Y-you bastard! How --"_

_"Careful now." Garbles took on a sing-song quality. _

_He gestured toward the woman. "Nicola has a gun too."_

Nicola. Who was Nicola? Latex gloves. Wavy black hair.

And Ari. Husky, garbled voice. Black faded leather jacket. That flower -- angel wings -- whatever it was.

"Ari and Nicola were wearing these gloves in the maquiladora," she announced suddenly.

Archie turned to stare again, clearly having no idea what she was talking about. He didn't dare ask what she meant, or so it seemed.

"Ari Marvin held this gun twice. And he didn't have those gloves while he was robbing the casino. Which means he must have gotten them _after_ he got to Juárez... And they're on the weapon that shot Richie Hedd."

"How easy are those gloves to find?" Archie asked.

"Hard," Wendy replied without turning around. "They aren't used anymore."

"So the chances that someone else using them shot the gun?"

"Negligible."

Archie nodded. "Well, I guess you've got Richie's killer."

Wendy sighed. "I've got Richie's killer before Greg's. Some justice there..." Her eyes dropped in acquiescence.

"Well, you've got someone else's too," Archie pointed out.

Wendy stared at him curiously.

"Name all of the people who touched the gun."

Wendy furrowed her brow. "Manny Di Ricci, Ari Marvin, Julian Kozlov."

"And did Manny Di Ricci kill himself?"

Wendy shook her head.

"Well then, who could have killed Manny Di Ricci?"

Wendy looked up startled -- happily so. "It _had_ to have been either Ari or Julian!"

Archie smiled at her.

And she imagined Greg smiling too.

_Start from the beginning_. She had, and she had solved the case. At least the one at the beginning. And that was the best place to start.

* * *

Nick pushed back tears and hobbled shakily up to the podium. He took a deep breath, but -- _now --_ he wasn't afraid anymore.

"Greg Sanders was the most amazing man I ever knew," Nick began. "We'll never forget him. _I'll_ never forget him. He was the love of my life, and the best thing that ever happened to me."

Nick clenched his eyes in an effort to keep the tears from overwhelming his message.

"He loved. He loved fully, and beautifully, and with all of his heart. He poured his heart into our relationship. He gave me his heart, even when I didn't deserve it. He should have given up on me years ago, but he didn't. He put everything into making us work. I didn't put enough into it. He taught me a lesson.

"Actually, he taught me a lot of lessons. He taught me to try different things. Even when it was different, bad food that left him stinking up the whole house to high hell." Nick choked back teary laughter. "He taught me to try dancing to computer music. He looked like an idiot when he did that, but he did it anyway. And I wish so much I could see him do that again. He taught me to give anything a try."

Nick steeled his voice, knowing that tears would gladly reign in over his next words. "He taught me to keep trying to love, no matter what. To take the chance, even if it doesn't work out in the end. To put your all into it. That's what he did. I never did. He deserved better.

Nick pulled the familiar ring out of his pocket. His voice stuttered as he spoke. "I found this in his dresser. He'd had it for years." Nick held the ring out for the whole audience to see. He knew Jan Sanders would recognize it, and, indeed, he heard her gasp.

* * *

It was slightly anticlimactic. She'd solved the case -- at least the first part of it. But there was no one to celebrate. No pat on the back from higher-ups. No suspect brought in for interrogation. Inevitably, they had pretty much known who was guilty all along. They just hadn't had any proof.

And they didn't have any body.

And they _still_ didn't have that body. They _still_ didn't have _Greg's_ body. But at least now Wendy knew what had happened in that casino, and that fact came with a strangely fulfilling sense of gratification.

Finally, she had _solved_ something.

She flashed back through the casino notes. It was strange that the Feds hadn't been able to figure it out really. All it took was a solitary piece of evidence -- the gun.

Then again, she'd been the one able to find the gun.

A curious fact indeed.

Had it been entirely her own work? She knew the answer was no.

Lenora.

Lenora Hernandez. When she was rushing through the case, Wendy hadn't bothered to question the older woman's motives. Now, however, under the harsher glare of a slowed-down reality, helpful hints and the inexplicable kindness of strangers lost their simplicity.

Why _had_ Lenora been so eager to help? She had made it sound as if she was conducting her own investigation into at least various aspects of the feminicides of Ciudad Juárez. So maybe she thought that Wendy's investigation -- along with the almost-certainly superior resources available to Wendy -- would push her own investigation forward.

She had, after all, left contact information with Wendy. Though she hadn't asked Wendy to inform her of any results, she had, in retrospect, probably hoped for such results.

But still, Wendy couldn't help thinking that there was something fishy in the whole situation.

Perhaps there was such a thing as being _too_ helpful.

She was broken from her thoughts by the loud, slightly obsequious sound of Hodges clearing his throat.

"Yes?" she asked, turning around.

"Semen results from the blood pool."

"Which blood pool?"

"The one that came back to Sandra Ortega."

Wendy nodded. "What have you got?" She reached for the results displayed in Hodges hands as he walked toward her, but he sidestepped her, holding the papers back.

"Don't get too excited," he warned in a deadpan.

She glared. "Now is not the time for this, Hodges."

He glared right back. "No, I mean it. _Don't_ get too excited. I didn't get a match. The result is male -- _unknown_ male. Given that it's semen, I'm kinda hoping that the _male_ part shouldn't have come as a big surprise to you."

Wendy rolled her eyes. "Well, _thank_ you, Hodges. Your wisdom never ceases to amaze -- wait, no, wrong word." She feigned thought for a minute. "Annoy! That's it! Your infinite wisdom never ceases to _annoy_ me."

Hodges smirked back, as he clearly sensed the joking lilt to her words. "Well, I'm _happy_ to help," he replied sarcastically. He started walking away before yelling out over his shoulder right before he reached the doorway -- "Archie says it matches something in _your_ files. A Cristian Portillo with Ciudad Juárez PD."

Wendy was startled at the announcement. Quickly, she scurried over to her Juárez file and burst it open. She glanced back at the unknown male DNA profile left by Hodges. Indeed, it was a match.

Cristian Portillo, whoever he was, was involved in some sort of sexual relationship with Sandra Ortega, whoever she was.

Which told Wendy nothing about her case.

She sighed in frustration.

Suddenly, she was back to moving nowhere.

She glanced down again at Sandra Ortega's picture.

"Who are you?" she asked in vexation. "And why do you matter to my case? Why can't I get your face out of my head?

"Why does Juárez _matter_ to Greg's case? Why does it matter to Lenora, or at least why do it _and_ my case matter to her? And who the heck _are_ you?"

Her mind swept back through interactions with Lenora, trying to piece together some semblance of an answer.

None came.

So she ignored the frustration and pushed herself back toward Greg's words:

Start at the beginning.

Which she had. She had solved _something_, but it wasn't making _anything_ that much clearer. She looked through her evidence again.

* * *

It was so hard to hold back his tears now. "He kept a weblog. Whatever it was. Greg was always good with technology." Nick didn't hesitate this time to wipe back tears from his eyes. "It's the way I can still see him talking. I can still see him smiling." His voice broke high on the last word. He missed Greg's smile _so_ much.

Nick cleared his throat. "He talked about this." He held out the ring higher. "His grandfather Olaf gave it to him." Nick looked down in shame before he could even get out the next words.

"He wanted to give it to me. To get married. Or have a civil union. Whatever it was, he was happy with any option." He..." Nick paused, as tears came again. "He just wanted to be loved.

"We were together for five years. In five years, I never told him I loved him. For some reason..." Nick felt teary laughter coming again. "He was a stubborn, stupid SOB. Because he still kept loving me, the idiot. He believed in me -- that I would change -- and he really shouldn't have.

"There was this quote that he learned. Apparently Grissom told him it after he kept making his coffee in the communal coffee pot and still expected the rest of the shift -- especially Griss -- not to steal it all." Nick laughed again, and he could sense the quiet, restrained laughter of his colleagues in the audience. Laughter, he knew, was what Greg would have wanted at his funeral. "They still kept stealing his coffee," he admitted with another chuckle.

"You know you're one of us," Warrick yelled up from the audience, smiling. Nick laughed back at him. "Yeah, I stole his coffee too." He was smiling now, but knew that his next words would soften it.

"The quote was -- insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results." Nick paused. "Maybe Greg was a little bit insane."

He saw the people in the audience who had really _known_ Greg laugh again, and Nick smiled. He had loved Greg's craziness. But that wasn't what this was about. At least not entirely.

"He did the same thing over and over again. Expecting different results. He tried again and again, until I..." Nick couldn't suppress a shudder. "Until I got him to stop trying.

"He tried over and over again to make our relationship work, to make me care more -- to make me admit that it _did_ have something to do with love. He kept loving me, again and again, expecting different results.

"I thought he was foolish. Stupid. Insane. For doing that. Sometimes, doing that is insanity. But, other times, doing the same thing over and over, no matter how much the results hurt in the end... sometimes it's just courage. Persistence and bravery. That's what Greg had." Nick paused. "And probably a little bit of insanity. Then again, the line between insanity and genius a blurry one." He paused again. "That's another quote he picked up to impress Grissom."

* * *

Two bullets killed Manny Di Ricci. She jostled them in her hand.

But there were _three_ bullets and _four _shell casings, all of which matched the snub-nosed revolver.

She stared in surprise and realization.

She flipped through the pages of the FBI file again, scanning for some hint as to where the other two bullets had gone.

She realized with surprise -- and a bitter chuckle at her own forgetfulness -- that the third bullet had hit Catherine in the shoulder.

_Of course. _She remembered the obvious cast that had covered Catherine's upper arm in the weeks after the case.

She glanced down again at the report of Catherine's injuries. Only one bullet. Catherine had only been shot once. Which still left one shell casing -- and, presumably, the bullet that it had accompanied -- unaccounted for.

She glanced again, growing frustrated as she grew close to the end of the file, still having found nothing.

She was ready to throw it down when she reached the last page. The last event.

_Nick and Catherine heard a gunshot and a pained cry_.

She and Nick had dismissed it at first, assuming that it was the shell casing left from the bullet that had killed Greg.

But, as they had learned at the maquiladora from Ari, Greg hadn't died at the casino. Though maybe they had still shot Greg then, and he had bled out for the duration of the car ride. Nonetheless, it was a long car ride, and given all of the things that the robbers _could_ have done to Greg over the course of it, it seemed unlikely that he would have lasted quite so long. And it seemed clear from the evidence left over at the maquiladora that Greg had indeed bled out there.

Which left Wendy confused.

She scanned through the photos of the lone shell casing found outside the casino.

That's when she knew it _really _didn't make sense. The shell casing was lying next to the spot where Greg's blood ended -- presumably next to where his body had been dragged into the SUV.

And the shell casing was lying vertical -- sticking straight up into the air. Wendy wasn't an expert at ballistics, but she _knew_ that there was no way it could have landed at such an angle if the bullet had been fired horizontally -- at a person. If the shell casing had fallen at such an angle, then the bullet had to have been fired basically straight up into the air.

Which mean that it hadn't hit Greg, or anybody else for that matter.

Which meant that it was still at the scene.

Wendy rushed out of the Lab in a hurry.

Half an hour later, after much grubbing around through trash and grass scattered throughout the Tangiers parking lot, she found the bullet nestled behind the dumpster.

A familiar piece of burnt hair was still attached to it.

And now it all _did_ make sense.

Knowing that Nick and Catherine's reports were not in fact the relevant ones, Wendy glanced through the note from the Feds' interview with Warrick. And it all fit in perfectly.

_Warrick Brown -- _

_"I got my own SUV. I know how hostage situations work. If you attract too much attention -- especially police attention -- the perps are likely to start hurtin' people to prove that they're serious. So I didn't tell anyone. I know, it was a mistake. I couldn't do anything more. Cath thought they really wouldn't hurt anyone. I talked to one of them -- the leader__, Ari__ -- and he sounded like he wasn't gonna hurt anyone. He just wanted a getaway vehicle. And I wanted my friends -- my _colleagues_ -- to get out unharmed. _

_I started driving. I got there. I pulled up in the parking lot that he told me to pull up at. I got out of my car. There were men there -- three or four, I think. Greg was with them. I think they were kind of dragging him. __One was carrying a gun.__ I walked up to them, cautiously. _

And there was the clue...

_I don't remember what happened after that. I woke up with a killer headache and a big lump on my head. Then I remembered Catherine. I ran into the casino to see if they were out. I could see that the robbers must have left, because the SUV was gone. It was my car, but Cath and Nick and Greg mattered more. _

_I went inside, thinking it was alright. Cath and Nick were there. Cath had a gunshot wound to her shoulder. I was worried. But they both looked really upset, and then I realized that something else must have happened. And that Greg wasn't there." _

She looked up as the scene dawned on her. She could visualize it:

_Warrick pulls up his SUV. The robbers walk away from the casino door, dragging an injured Greg. Warrick steps out of the car and cautiously approaches the robbers. __One of them -- whichever one had the revolver -- moves toward Warrick, but hits him in the temple with the butt of the revolver. Warrick goes out cold from the impact of the hit. _

_And then the bullet... flying up into the air, having discharged by accident. The trigger got stuck on Warrick's hair as a robber hit him in the head with it. Burnt hair caught and a bullet goes off, flying high into the air and landing behind the dumpster. _

_And the robbers move into the SUV, dragging Greg with them. _

That much made sense. Wendy couldn't help finding small solace in the fact that the pained cry Catherine and Nick had heard hadn't been Greg's -- that it hadn't been the last thing they heard from him. Then again, it didn't make much of a difference. Greg's last words to Nick certainly still seemed to haunt the older man.

Nonetheless, she picked up the photograph of Greg again and smiled at it.

"Thanks," she whispered. "For the advice." She cleared her throat, surprised to find hints of tears. "I think I know a little more about what happened to you. Or at least what _didn't_."

* * *

"And Greg _was_ a genius also." Nick laughed again, though it was more cathartic than humorous. "Stanford Phi Beta Kappa. Brilliant. Amazing sense of humor. A sense of style that could best be described as fearless, at least for the first few years that I knew him. He _was_ fearless."

He pushed himself back on track, and held up the ring again. "This is his ring, and I'm gonna wear it for the rest of my life. But I know he'll never get to wear _my_ ring. Because I never had the guts to ask him. Because I was never brave enough to love him back." Nick continued to hold his tears back, remembering Greg's strength. "I'll remember him forever. No matter how much time passes, I'll tell them about him. I won't let the Lab forget him. I _won't_ let this city remember him as anything less than a hero. He was _my _hero."

Nick glanced up, scanning the audience. He knew he was almost done. "Greg Sanders taught me a lot, and I'll spend the rest of my life living, but also remembering him. I hope everyone else here doesn't make the same mistake I made. I hope everyone else here -- I hope they learn from Greg. Live like he did, and love like he did. Give love a chance, and don't take it for granted like I did. Learn from him and remember him." Nick took a deep breath. _Almost done. _"That's the best way we can remember him. That's the most we can do for him now." He cleared his throat. "And may he rest in peace."

Nick felt the ring on his finger, and he made his way back toward the front pew.

He stepped down from the podium in silence as the small mourning crowd moved up to clap somberly. Colleagues stood up awkwardly and began again to trade familiar memories of their late comrade in arms.

Nick barely noticed the frantic footsteps of a friend rushing out of the church.

**

* * *

**

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **So which friend rushed out? And why? Guess away. The answer will be revealed in the next chapter. Did everything Wendy found out make sense? I'm trying to make the investigations as clear as possible, but never quite know whether or not I'm succeeding. I noticed reviews plummeted on the last chapter. Please let me know if there was something you didn't like about last chapter. I promise that things are about to get a lot more exciting. Please review ;)

Harper


	29. Las Lecciones del Amor

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Sorry for the ridiculously long delay. There was a bit of a misunderstanding between my beta and I, compounded by the fact that I was just too lazy and/or overwhelmed by finals to deal with getting everything sorted out in a reasonable time frame. This is the last chapter before the more action-filled home stretch. Also, this chapter is unusually long, as an attempt at restitution for the extended wait. The title translates to 'Lessons from The Love". Interpret the last two words as you will ;) Thanks to LaughableBlackStorm for beta and toUnity2008, CJane, CountToEight, Praetor_Corvinus, Readingcats, Yoshicat, QueenOfTheUniverse, PugNTurtle, CrystallineSolid, Aussie, YuugisGirl, CSIFan09, Stella2219, longas91 and Katonha for reviews on the last chapter! Enjoy ;)

**CHAPTER 29: LAS LECCIONES DEL AMOR**

Nick stepped down from the podium in silence as the small mourning crowd moved up to clap somberly.

Colleagues stood up awkwardly and began again to trade familiar memories of their late comrade in arms.

Nick didn't seem to notice the frantic footsteps of a friend rushing out of the church.

Grissom, however, did.

"Sara! Wait!" He rushed as fast as his legs could carry him, which was slightly faster than his employees would have expected. "Sara! Where are you going?"

She turned around. Her face was a terrifying mash of tears, frustration, rage and sorrow and he couldn't separate out every individual emotion. It frightened him.

"Sara," he said, catching his breath as he finally caught up to her. She continued to walk quickly away from the church and he found himself panting as he tried to keep pace and still hold a conversation. She moved toward the street and, exhausted, he grabbed her arm.

"Stop. Sara, please. Stop."

She kept her face pointed forward, refusing to face him. Nonetheless, he could still see that none of the emotions exploding and surging through her normally stolid face had abated.

"Sara, please. Stop. Listen to me."

She gulped and still didn't face him, but she stopped trying to move. He gently pointed her back toward the church. He knew she talked and thought best on her feet, and hoped that the walk back to the church would provide sufficient time and space for a conversation -- the conversation they now clearly needed to have.

She remained silent, but, after this many years, he had learned to make the first move. "Sara, please. Listen to me. What's going on? Why are you running away? I know you've watched too many people die, and Greg's death is hard to deal with, and --"

And then she laughed, effectively cutting him off. He stood back stunned, his hand dropping from her arm instinctively, largely out of shock.

"You have no idea," she said, her voice bitterly mocking -- humorous in the worst way. "You have no _idea_ what this is about."

"It's about emotions," he ventured, keeping his poker face confident. He knew he had to hit it on the nail with at least one of the guesses. They were all vague enough, and, as soon as one word elicited a response, he would go from there. He _would_ figure out what was wrong. "It's about -- it's about family, and being there for each other. And Greg. You _cared_ about Greg. And Nick."

He could see the faintest hint of a response blooming on her face, even though it only served to exacerbate the storm of harsh emotions already present there.

"I-it's about Nick and Greg." Another response. "About them, and emotions, and love." Her face changed again, and he continued, trying to hone in on the niche of the problem. "About really doing the right thing for someone important to you." He could tell that hit a nerve somehow -- that he was close. "About trust."

And that was it.

"Yes," she replied, her voice hollow, hauntingly so. "It has everything to do with trust. Misjudging. Not understanding. Jumping to conclusions. Trusting the wrong person." She turned to Grissom with the last words that hit him in the heart in a way that stole whatever enigmatic characteristics such words could have first possessed.

Because he knew exactly what she was talking about.

"Please, Sara," he implored. He was not above begging. At least not anymore. "Give me another chance."

Her face softened and a lone tear resurfaced. "I'm sorry, Gil," she replied. "But you don't understand."

"Please," he replied. "Make me understand. I'll do anything."

"Don't reduce yourself to a lovesick puppy," she responded bitterly. "It doesn't always turn out so well."

And with that she was gone, reaching for the handle of a lingering taxi as Grissom stared wide-eyed and open-mouthed.

"It's not your fault, Gil." Her last words to him before the taxi car took off into the Vegas abyss. "Not your fault at all."

Nonetheless, disbelieving, he turned around, making a vow to do better -- to be there for the people that he loved -- as he marched back toward the church.

* * *

Warrick wrapped his arm more tightly around Catherine. She leaned into his arms, pulling Lindsey with her. Lindsey reached out a small hand to wipe a tear off of her mother's face and Warrick was struck with an urge to do the same.

Nick's words echoed in his ears as he fondly stroked the cashmere covering Catherine's back.

_"Greg Sanders taught me a lot, and I'll spend the rest of my life living, but also remembering him. I hope everyone else here doesn't make the same mistake I made. I hope everyone else here -- I hope they learn from Greg. Live like he did, and love like he did. Give love a chance, and don't take it for granted like I did. Learn from him and remember him. That's the best way we can remember him. That's the most we can do for him now. And may he rest in peace."_

Nick wouldn't get another chance, at least not with the person he loved -- the person he had spent years with, building up a love. But Warrick would.

Warrick ran a hand over Catherine's shoulder, massaging the gunshot wound's scar that she hid so well. She instinctively moved in toward his touch, letting loose the tiniest not-quite-moan of contentment.

And, in the middle of all the tragedy and mourning, Warrick smiled.

He would learn from Greg. The younger man had been right about Thackeray, and Warrick would be happy to spend the rest of his life proving that very fact.

"Would you two like to go get something to eat?" he murmured in Catherine's ear.

She nodded, reaching to pull Lindsey up with her.

The trio quietly made their way back toward Warrick's car.

* * *

Nick stood by himself and Grissom felt slightly out-of-place being the first to talk to the younger man.

But he _had_ learned from Nick's speech and, more than anything else, from Sara. It was time to provide the emotional support that his employees -- his _family_ really -- needed.

He would not stray from the personal, interpersonal and emotional again, at least if he could help it. He knew, in reality, that the pledge would be difficult to maintain and that he would, on occasion, fail. But he knew he still needed to try. With Sara gone, it was the least he could do in honor of the many years she'd spent waiting for him to move forward.

In that way, he could relate to what Nick was going through. He could understand the sense of regret as if it were a shared bone in his own body. Nonetheless, he knew, after having lost Sara again and again, and given that she was not necessarily lost forever (at least not in the same tangible way), that Nick's pain was more acute. It was grief and was, in that regard, inherently more acute.

And the way Nick spoke of his treatment toward Greg, Grissom almost suspected that Nick had been a worse boyfriend than even Grissom himself. That fact almost made Grissom proud -- or at least relieved. Almost. Maybe it would have if he didn't have to watch the younger man with that stoical, forlorn, hopeless look on his face. With Sara, the combustion of emotion had been frightening, but the look on Nick's face -- the _absence_ of emotion -- was even more so.

Nick, along with Greg at times, had been the heart of the team. Looking at the heart wrenching-pain-induced stoicism on Nick's face, and at Greg's memorial no less, was liking watching a heart freeze.

Grissom was by no means a warm person. In fact, he had often been called (generally by Catherine) one of the coldest people she'd met, even though she admitted he had his moments of warmth that he let out on occasion.

Nonetheless, despite his allegedly frigid demeanor, Grissom would do his best -- because he _needed_ to do his best -- to soothe over and reheat the team's tender and vital organ that was -- or should have been -- Nick.

Intentions aside, Grissom still couldn't help but approach the CSI 3 cautiously. Some habits were far too ingrained.

He began to reach out a hand for Nick's shoulder, but thought better of it.

"Nick?"

Nick stared at him, still blank-faced. "Hi, Grissom. I liked your speech."

Grissom cleared his throat, trying not to let his own pain at seeing Nick so lost overwhelm his mission.

"Nick, I'm really sorry for your loss." Grissom stumbled. What exactly was he supposed to _do_? How exactly did one go about being warm and comforting?

"I -- I should go back to work."

Grissom stared in surprise. "B-back to work."

Nick grinned sheepishly, even through the tears. "Well, that is what I'm getting paid to do."

Grissom was taken aback, and despite the fact that they were already a man (or rather woman) down, with Sara's departure, he did something he'd never thought to do.

"Ignore work, Nick. Take the week off."

It was now Nick's turn to look surprised. "Seriously? _Grissom_?"

Grissom rolled his eyes and nodded. "Really. Take the week off. I mean it."

Nick raised his eyebrows and nodded, still slightly speechless, apparently. "Okay. Thanks, Griss."

Grissom nodded. It would be a lot of work to make up, and would probably mean achieving less than the top clearance rate for the week, but it would be worth it. Because sometimes the personal had to take priority over the professional. Hot cases be damned.

* * *

Wendy stared at the evidence compiled so far. She was making progress. Finally making progress.

She could now tie Ari and Julian to the scene, thanks to the fingerprints they'd left on the snub-nosed revolver that had been used to kill the original DB, Manny Di Ricci, and to knock Warrick out with a hit to the head.

The revolver, she concluded, had also been used by Ari, who had been wearing older, powdery latex gloves when she'd met him at the maquiladora. Ari had worn the gloves when he used that same snub-nosed revolver to shoot Richie Hedd, one of the other robbers, five times post-mortem, judging by latex powder residue left on the revolver. Hodges, with just a little pushing, had agreed to run trace on the revolver to verify that.

And Lenora, it seemed, had already linked Richie to the rape and murder of Jane Doe #89. Which was beside the point because Richie was dead anyway.

Wendy still couldn't quite get her head around the idea of Ari murdering Richie, as much of a jerk as Richie sounded like, based on Catherine and Nick's reports from the casino. Richie had stood by Ari for some 20-odd years in prison, and Ari had clearly trusted him to help carry out the robbery. Loyalty and trust like that was seldom rewarded with a vicious beating and five bullets.

Then again, Richie had been caught raping and murdering a young woman -- Jane Doe #89, whoever she really was. Perhaps Ari couldn't take that kind of crime -- despite what cruelty Ari claimed to have inflicted on Greg.

It was odd.

There was something about Ari, hidden underneath his cruel words, that seemed too human. Too sympathetic to possibly wreak such havoc on another human being.

There was something about him -- about the way he spoke to Wendy that night at the maquiladora -- that Wendy couldn't help inherently trusting, even _liking_ to the point that she _could_ even imagine him standing up to even a trusted friend for victimizing an innocent woman.

But Wendy knew that her own irrational biases made no sense and held no real evidence. It was her job to play the rational, impartial scientist. The man at the maquiladora was only what the evidence told her about him -- nothing more and nothing less.

Wendy shook her head. This, she had to remind herself, was why she had to stick entirely to the evidence. Analyzing words and feelings would only serve to confuse her further.

She shuffled through her files for what felt like the hundredth time that night. There was barely any evidence left to look at, and she knew it.

The robbers had done their best -- with Nick and Greg's forced help, of course -- to clean up the scene. They had left only the bullets in Manny Di Ricci.

But they had to have touched _something_.

Wendy ran through the nights' events once again.

_Ari Marvin and/or Julian Kozlov comes to Tangiers casino, finds Manny Di Ricci and takes Tam Jared's snub-nosed revolver from Manny Di Ricci. Kills Manny Di Ricci with two shots from the snub-nosed revolver._

_Ari Marvin and/or Julian Kozlov leaves the Tangiers._

_Ari Marvin, Julian Kozlov, Richie Hedd and Sam Bigsby return to casino and hide in back room, camouflaging with old clothes. _

_Nick and Greg arrive at casino and begin processing. Catherine joins them about an hour or so later._

_Catherine begins processing room where robbers are hiding. One robber shoots her with the revolver. Robbers drag Catherine toward room that Nick and Greg are processing._

_Robbers search Nick and Greg._

_Greg keeps pressure on Catherine's shoulder wound while Nick and robbers begin to clear scene, removing and destroying all evidence of crime._

_Ari begins helping Catherine while Greg helps Nick and other three robbers clear scene._

_Catherine calls Warrick on cell phone. Ari takes away cell phone and Catherine calls Warrick on walkie-talkie. _

_Robbers beat up Greg. _

_Ari talks to Warrick on walkie-talkie. _

_Warrick arrives._

_Robbers take Greg away, hit Warrick on head and escape._

Wendy pondered what she had. It seemed that the robbers must have touched quite a bit. She checked the Feds' evidence log.

_The walkie-talkie was wiped clean of prints. _Wendy sighed. _Well, that's one piece of evidence down and useless._

Catherine's cell phone -- wiped clean.

The knife used to stab Greg -- missing.

Wendy growled. Why did the robbers have to clear the scene? How did they even know how to use everything in the kit to wipe everything clean?!

She paused...

The kit.

They had touched the kit.

Greg's kit hadn't been taken by the FBI as evidence, and there was no record of the robbers wiping it clean.

Now she just needed to figure out where the kit was.

* * *

"Can you please pass the salt, Warrick?"

Warrick looked across the diner table to Lindsey with a smirk. She was growing up -- not just growing taller, but learning _manners_.

"Sure thing, Linds."

He could see the small inkling of a smile playing out on Catherine's face as he passed the salt.

It was a small diner -- the team diner -- and Warrick felt slightly out-of-place to be there with a teenager. He was used to coming here after work, as a professional and as a member of LVPD. Today, there was a distinctly different flavor to their interactions. It felt more like a family meal almost.

He was interrupted from his thoughts by a flash of motion. He turned around in time to see Catherine jump back in alarm. His gaze moved downward to the object of her concern: maple syrup spilled on the table. Sticky syrup coated one of her hands as she turned to glare at Lindsey. Warrick was surprised by the display of clumsiness from Lindsey. The girl was, after all, a ballerina from a long line of dancers and generally graceful people.

Catherine began to wipe her hands on the jacket Warrick had lent her earlier that day, when the crisp air proved too much for her sleeveless funeral apparel.

"Nuh uh," Lindsey chastised, snatching her mother's hand away. "Don't wipe your hands on your sleeves."

Warrick bit back a laugh at the reversal in matriarchal position.

Catherine glared at her daughter before quirking an eyebrow in amusement and gracefully leaving her seat to head to the bathroom.

As soon as Catherine's back was turned, Lindsey pointed her stare at Warrick, with intensity. That was when Warrick knew that the maple syrup spill was no accident of the ungainly.

"So," Lindsey began. "You and my mom." Her voice had the same crisp down-to-business air of her mother's.

Warrick chuckled awkwardly. He was by no means used to feeling put on the spot and intimidated by a teenager.

"This isn't a laughing matter," Lindsey reminded him, though he could see an amused smirk in her eyes -- again, much like her mother's.

"Mom cares a lot about you, and she's pretty darn tired, so I honestly don't know how she's gonna make this work."

Warrick looked at her skeptically. "This?"

Lindsey shrugged it off, though with dignity. "This conversation, I mean. She has a history of bad romantic choices."

Skepticism gave way to offense on Warrick's face. He wasn't used to wearing his poker face as often when he was around Catherine. And Lindsey was similar enough to her mother that that tendency seemed to carry over into conversation with her as well.

"Not that you're a bad romantic choice," Lindsey began. She seemed to be trying to avoid losing ground by back-peddling, even as she did in fact back-pedal. "Just that she tends to not get the most out of her relationships, for herself. Somehow the guys always end up setting the rules."

Warrick had to admit -- he was more than a little surprised at how aware Lindsey was of her mother's love life. The teenager, however, seemed to catch on to his train of thought. "It's not that hard to keep track of her boyfriends," Lindsey explained. "It's not like she's had that many."

Her eyes met Warrick's in a pointed stare. "She was holding out for you, you know."

Were his glass of ginger ale not finished, Warrick would have choked on it at the last statement.

"All I'm saying," Lindsey continued. "Is that she might not set the right limits. She may let you get away with stuff --"

"Lindsey, your mom -- _Catherine_ -- is pretty strong." That sounded wrong. A definite understatement. "She's _very_ strong," he corrected himself. "One of the strongest women -- strongest _people_ -- I've ever met."

Lindsey rolled her eyes. "I'm not talking about strength. Ropes are strong, but you can still bend them around and make them go every which way. You can even make them tie themselves up." She looked up to Warrick's smirk, and she sighed and rolled her eyes again. "I got that from Grissom. And I'm sure he included many more SAT-worthy words in _his_ explanation."

Warrick chuckled. "I'm sure he did."

"Anyway," Lindsey said, clearing her throat. "My mom, like the Bugman said, is like a rope. She's strong, but she bends. She's strong, but she's also flexible. And sometimes she bends when she doesn't need to bend -- when she _shouldn't_ bend."

Warrick could think of a lot of inappropriate responses to Lindsey's last words, but he restrained himself. "So you're saying..."

"What I'm saying is, basically, that my mom might not think to set the ground rules. She'll be too happy that she has you in her life in this..." Lindsey looked up awkwardly. "Way."

Warrick smirked, secretly glad that there was at least something about the conversation that made the headstrong and confident teenager uncomfortable. He could pretend that she looked half as uncomfortable as he felt in the exchange.

Lindsey recovered quickly. "So what I mean is that, if my mom doesn't set the ground rules, then I'm going to do it."

Warrick creased his brows. Something was wrong with that picture. "Lindsey, this relationship, whatever happens with it, is between me and your mom. It's not really your place to --"

Lindsey laughed, and it wasn't a friendly laugh this time. It was biting and sarcastic and angry. "No, I'll tell _you_ about places now," she said, and he could see the same anger that Catherine so rarely held, hidden in the teen's eyes. "It wasn't your place to leave my mother hanging. It wasn't your place to lead her on, and act interested in her life, and then get married and just forget about what you guys had. Her choice in men was never very good, though I really do like to think that you're the exception --"

"Well, your dad --" Warrick pointed out.

Lindsey rolled her eyes. "Don't _even_ get me started on him." She glanced away for a millisecond before regaining her impressive composure. "Her choice in men was never good, but it got worse after you got married. It hurt her. You guys can set whatever ground rules you want. 'Cause I'm sure as hell that there's a _lot_ in your relationship that I do _not_ want to know about. And I'm sure Mom will stand up for herself on all of those things. But what I want from you is one rule -- one promise."

Her eyes met Warrick's with even greater intensity -- the kind of intensity he'd probably seen in Catherine's eyes on less than five occasions.

"_Promise_ that you won't bug out on her. You won't go off and get married again, or cheat or do _anything_ like that. Be the _stable_ guy. Take care of _her_."

Warrick nodded uncomfortably. This conversation eerily reminded him of his conversations with the father of his first college girlfriend. Lindsey Willows was one tough and surprisingly intimidating cookie, not unlike her mother.

"And you said that the relationship is just between you and my mom," Lindsey began again. "It isn't. She's _my_ mom. She's a single parent. We're close, and when you join the family, you get the family. Don't expect anything less, and don't try to take the easy road out. This _is_ a relationship between you and my entire family -- or rather family of two -- but you get the point."

Warrick nodded. "So," he said, chuckling awkwardly yet again. "You want me to start picking you up from school or meeting all of your friends...?"

Lindsey laughed. "No," she replied curtly, with an edge of an amused smile. "_I_ don't need a dad or some load of _parental guidance _or whatever."

"Then what _am_ I supposed to do?" Warrick hadn't meant to sound so businesslike, as if it were simply a trade they were arranging, or as if he had no reason of his own to want to help out his girlfriend and best friend's daughter whom he had known since birth.

Lindsey just smiled. "We'll figure that out along the way, I'm sure."

Warrick nodded before slowly shaking his head in amusement at the entire situation. "You got it, boss."

Lindsey beamed and reached out to shake Warrick's hand. She had a strong, firm grip, but Warrick's hand could still crush hers. Like Catherine, she was unusually strong, but that didn't mean that she didn't need anyone else by her side.

Catherine made her way to the table and Warrick couldn't hold back a grin as he saw the same smirk in her eyes that Lindsey had just worn. It was a perfectly fine case of déjà vu.

* * *

Nick wasn't sure if he really wanted to be home.

It still didn't smell quite the same, though it at least looked the same. Greg had finally gotten around to cleaning up all the stuff he'd left littered around the house the day before the heist. Nick felt like he had spent every other minute hassling Greg to clean up some days. Now that the house was relatively neat, with Greg's papers and CDs and books stacked neatly in the office, Nick kind of wished it would go back to sloppiness. It would just make home feel that much more Greg-like.

Still, he was happier to be home than he had been in a while. He needed a break. He needed to think. He needed to figure out exactly what it was he wanted.

He had a choice -- that very choice offered him that night in Juárez -- and he hadn't yet convinced himself thoroughly that he was going to take it, even though he'd told Ari that he would.

Before he did, though, he needed to remind himself what he was fighting for. Why the next dangerous steps he was readying himself to take would be worth it.

He made his way back to the bedroom and turned on Greg's laptop.

A mass of video files dripped down the screen -- the already viewed 'Wow' and 'It'; 'Waffles,' 'Lake Mead,' 'Getting tired or this,' 'not working,' 'working,' 'Everything's Good!' ... The list went on. Nick couldn't help chuckling at how Greg had named the files. Most people would have just labeled them by date, or perhaps who was on the other line, or rather screen, of the conversation. But not Greg.

He scrolled down, only to find that, toward the end, labels had changed to simple dates. He was disheartened to see which file had come before the change, though it didn't surprise him.

_'What I found on the bed'_

It seemed amusing, or maybe it would in some other context. But Nick knew what that post was about.

But he wouldn't start looking at that one just yet. He wasn't ready to.

He clicked on an earlier file, one labeled 'Second Date?'

In a matter of minutes, sputtering static gave way to a familiar smile.

Greg's mischievous grin lit up the screen, and Nick couldn't help jumping back a little in surprise. It was so refreshing to see Greg _smiling_ like that.

It had been a while back. He could tell by Greg's hair -- dark and spiky. Right before the younger man had made his successful transition out of the DNA lab. Or perhaps it was during that transition... Nick chastised himself for not remembering more clearly.

_"So," Greg said, grin still etched on his face. "Does this count as a second date?"_

_A familiar female voice responded. "I don't know what _this_ was yet, Greg."_

Nick could tell that Sara was stifling a laugh.

_Greg laughed, and then smiled cheekily, lips pressed together as if trying to contain _something_. "Well, we went to get drinks again."_

_"Drinks? Yeah, I'd say that counts. I'm not exactly an expert on that stuff."_

Nick himself had to laugh at that statement. He couldn't imagine Sara and Grissom served as any examples of proper dating behavior. Then again, Sara and Grissom probably hadn't been together at that point. Indeed, the next words verified that.

_"I haven't been on a real date since Hank," Sara added_.

_"Aw, I'm sorry, Sara," Greg replied. "Shoulda let a real man take you out while said real man was still free, eh?"_

Though Nick couldn't see her on the screen, he had a strong suspicion that Sara was rolling her eyes at the last comment.

_"So," Sara responded. "You gonna explain to me now how you even _know_ said real man isn't free?"_

_Greg glared. "We went on a date. I think."_

_"What'd you guys do?"_

_"We went out. To a bar."_

_"Nice."_

_"Nice? It was awesome. We talked. We watched the game on the screen together. This girl tried to hit on me and he got jealous. That was the best part."_

_"Jealous?" Sara's tone was slightly disbelieving. "I can't imagine Nick getting too... well, like that."_

_"No." Greg's face lit up even more -- more so than Nick thought was even possible. "Nick may seem like a very together guy. But he has a sweet spot for me. _I_ got his goat. Me, Greg Sanders, DNA dork."_

_Sara didn't try to hold back her laughter on the other end this time, apparently. "Well, then, I suppose there's gotta be hope for the rest of us geeks."_

_"Of course there is," Greg replied, face still lit up._

Nick figured by now that that unstoppable grin would remain a permanent feature for the rest of the conversation.

_"So," Greg started, leaning down conspiratorially. "You wanna hear the details? Live vicariously through my hot date, since you haven't found the perfect... what would it be? Jock to your geek yet?"_

_Sara laughed. "I don't need a jock, Greg. I'm comfortable enough in my masculinity that I don't need a man who's buffer and stronger than me."_

_Greg paused, his face switching between amusement, confusion and just happiness. The smile still didn't leave. _

_"You're implying that you -- a girl --"_

_"A _woman,_" Sara corrected._

_Greg rolled his eyes. "You're implying that you, as a _woman_, are more comfortable with your _masc_ulinity than I am."_

_"Whatever."_

Nick could tell by Sara's voice that she was conceding. Greg apparently could as well.

_"Whatever. Keep ogling the unattainable. See if I care," Greg responded, biting his lip in more pitying smile clearly meant to be directed at Sara._

But Nick couldn't help feeling as if that particular comment and pitying expression ought to be directed at himself now. He wouldn't get over the now-unattainable, even though Greg _had_ been attainable for so long.

_"So, the date?" Sara asked, frustration and impatience very apparent in her voice. "When did it start?"_

Nick knew Sara well enough to realize that half -- if not the majority -- of her questions were designed more to allow Greg the chance to gush than for her to actually retrieve details that she craved.

_"The supermarket."_

_"The supermarket?" she asked incredulously._

_Greg nodded defensively. _

_"What kind of date do you have in a supermarket?"_

_"The kind where you shop for food?" Greg replied, half-guess, half-answer. _

_"Greg, grocery shopping isn't a date."_

_"Yes, it was! Because it was with Nick!"_

_"What did you do then? At the grocery store?"_

_"We shopped for food. But there was stuff underneath, you know?"_

_"No, I don't. You haven't enlightened me yet."_

_Greg glared, though his look was still humorous. Still, Nick couldn't help spotting a tinge of insecurity buried underneath the smile. _

_"Well..." Greg paused, thinking. "It's like we _knew_ we weren't just there. We knew we were _together_. Every time we touched, it would look to everybody else like it was just two guys accidentally bumping into each other while shopping. But to us... it was different. It was electric. It's like we had this _secret_. You know?"_

_"What I know is that that sounds like rationalization."_

_"We went to a bar afterwards!"_

_"Did he kiss you?"_

_Greg looked around sheepishly. "Well... no."_

_"What made it a date?"_

_"Well... we were together." Greg's voice was growing smaller. _

_Sara sighed on the other end. "Well, I don't really know what constitutes a date in your or Nick's minds. But I hope for your sake that it was one."_

_Greg returned her words with a small smile. "Thanks, Sar. I've gotta go."_

Nick knew which "date" Greg had been talking about. And he knew that Sara was right. It wasn't quite a date. He had wanted Greg's company. Something like that. He had a 'Buy 1, Get 1 Free' coupon for some kind of perishable food. And he didn't want to buy more than he could eat, so he asked Greg to come. It all sounded kind of stupid in retrospect. Half price off of a loaf of bread -- even if it was the pricier, super-healthy grain mix kind -- didn't quite justify going grocery shopping with his coworker.

Still, he hadn't thought of it as a date. He enjoyed Greg's company. He'd enjoyed what they had -- practical. Their grocery shopping trip embodied that. They got stuff taken care of, whether it was grocery shopping or taking care of each other's sexual needs. Simple, easy and no strings attached.

They _had_ gone out to a bar afterwards. Nick hadn't registered that he was in fact jealous of the girl fawning over Greg. She was blonde and tiny and was dressed really scantily, and he just _knew_ he had to stop Greg from making the mistake of sleeping with the first willing body and, in the process, from contracting an STD. Because if Greg got an STD, then they wouldn't be able to fuck anymore, at least not the way they had been.

It was, in retrospect, a rather silly rationalization on Nick's part. He knew that.

Greg's face continued to smile at him from the paused screen, and he knew that he needed to click on the next file.

He owed that much to Greg.

* * *

"Hey, Archie." She opened the door to find the A/V tech rewinding through security camera footage. He turned around in his swivel chair to face her.

"Video from the CVS closest to Maura Greene's scene," he said, pointing at the screen. "Didn't find anything, though."

Wendy nodded. "No problem. I actually need your help on something else right now."

Archie looked up skeptically before nodding. "Bring it on."

"Do you have any record in Lab surveillance of what happened to Greg's kit?"

Archie stared contemplatively before turning around toward his computer. He scrolled through a few files before clicking on one. Lab footage expanded on the screen and Wendy crossed her fingers.

After a few minutes of fast-forwarding, rewinding and skipping through clips, Archie paused, bringing an image of Sara Sidle, kit in hand, to rest on the screen.

Wendy's mouth turned into a perfect 'O' as she recognized the logic of it. She, after all, had inherited Sara's kit. Which left Sara kitless upon returning to the Lab. And the available kit, of course, was Greg's.

Wendy reached for the phone, but was interrupted by a tap on the shoulder from Archie. She stared at him questioningly before seeing the direction of his pointed finger, which had now found video footage in live time -- revealing Sara Sidle stalking through the Lab hallway and into the locker room. Wendy rushed through the door, uttering small words of gratitude to Archie on her way out.

"Sara!" Wendy called as she hurried through the hallway.

The older woman turned around and Wendy could now see that her eyes were tear stained. A wash of guilt played through Wendy's mind as she realized that Sara must have just come from Greg's memorial service.

Then she dismissed the thought. Because she needed answers. Now. (Or at least as soon as possible.)

"Yes?" Sara's voice was gruff and bordering on hoarse.

"I know this is going to sound a bit odd, but can I borrow your kit?"

Sara's expression didn't change -- her lips barely even seemed to move -- and she turned around and headed back toward the locker room, motioning Wendy to follow.

Upon reaching the room -- her facial expression still eerily apathetic and unchanged -- Sara quickly opened the locker with somewhat more force than necessary and shoved the kit out.

"Here," she said, handing it to Wendy. "You can keep it."

Wendy was slightly bowled over. Something just felt... off. "But -- wait -- ah --"

"I don't need it anymore. And besides, we have a tradition of sharing kits. I always let Greg use mine also. And I don't want to be reminded of him anymore."

"B -- but don't you need it?" Wendy stuttered

"No," was Sara's simple reply. "I'm leaving the Lab. Good luck, Wendy."

"I -- but --" Wendy wished she could stave off all of the sputtering and stuttering. "But we need you!" she got out in one fair burst.

Sara chuckled. "You guys will do just fine. I came here for a reason, and that reason is no longer applicable." Her face changed -- almost imperceptibly -- to reveal a twinge of empathy. "Wendy," she said, reaching for the younger woman's hand.

Wendy was surprised by such a gesture from the normally colder older woman, but stiffly reached out her own hand to grasp the olive branch.

Sara met her eyes. "I trained Greg. I was his mentor when he became a CSI."

Her stare was intense and Wendy could only nod.

"I know I haven't worked much with you, but trust me when I say this -- you'll do a great job. You're already better than Greg, in every way."

Wendy started slightly at the last words. She wasn't sure if Sara realized just how ambiguous they sounded. Better than Greg at _what_?

She gaped -- probably like a fish -- before Sara patted her hand kindly and headed out the door.

Wendy was left standing in the locker room, clutching Greg's kit and staring after the older woman in puzzlement.

* * *

_"So," Greg began._

Nick could tell from his boyfriend's (or whatever he was now) haircut around the time the conversation had taken place. Those particular ironed-down spikes had donned Greg's head about a year after he had become a CSI.

_"How's it going with Grissom?"_

_"Alright," Sara replied. _

_"What have you guys been doing?" Greg asked eagerly. _

_"Just stuff," Sara responded evasively. _

_"Nothing interesting?"_

_"Nah."_

_"I'm sorry," Greg said, though his tone and facial expression conveyed less than actual unhappiness. In fact, Nick could see the gloating smile barely masked underneath. Sara, apparently, could too._

_"Nothing compared to the joys of you and Nick's domestic bless?" she asked dryly. _

_Greg beamed. "Absolutely."_

_"Grissom and I talk. Read. We have an ant farm we're working on together. Sometimes we cook together. He reads me Shakespearean sonnets, and a few by older poets I've never heard of. We had to go out of state to go on a date."_

_Greg's expression looked somewhat less jubilant. _

_"So, you got any insightful words of relationship-related wisdom that you'd like to pass on, as the guy that's been in a relationship for the longest?"_

_Greg shook his head. "No. It sounds like you guys are already are doing more than Nick and I, actually." His expression was glum. _

_"I doubt that."_

_Greg looked up suspiciously. _From the laptop, it almost looked like he was looking up at _Nick_ suspiciously. Nick averted his gaze anxiously. He knew Greg couldn't see him -- it was an old recording, of course, and Greg was dead -- but he still felt uncomfortable under that stare.

_"What do you and Nick do anyway?"_

_Greg shrugged. "We just... live together. We live in the same house."_

_"And?"_

_He shrugged again. "We sleep together. A lot. I cook, although Nick gives me a hard time about the stuff I cook. But he still eats it and I know he still likes it. He just always says it's not as good as his college girlfriend's, or his last boyfriend's, and that it's got _nothin' on Texas food_." Greg tried -- and failed -- to adopt Nick's accent for the last four words. _Nick _could_ remember himself saying that very thing on more than one occasion.

_"That sucks," Sara replied. _

Trust Sara to keep it as monosyllabic as possible.

_Greg shrugged again. "We're working on it, I think. I guess not everyone's just... cut out for that kind of relationship. Or not every couple can be... I dunno."_

Hopeless. They had been together for almost two years, and Greg already sounded hopeless. Nick couldn't help the feeling of his own hope deserting him. He no longer paused, rewound, fast-forwarded and played the videos for a chance to see that much-missed smile. He did it to remind himself -- because he owed it to Greg to at least try to understand where they -- where _he_, Nick -- had gone wrong. What had once meekly occupied the nether orifices of his mind now surged forward, and _that_ was the knowledge that he had stifled something as precious and simple as love.

He fiddled with Papa Olaf's ring, wiped a few too many stray tears away and shakily reached for the next file. He wasn't quite ready for _'What I found on the bed'_ yet. He would work his way up, no matter how circuitous the route.

A phone call interrupted him.

Glancing down at his cell, he chuckled bitterly just to see a man of such horrific magnitude -- at least in relation to Nick's own life -- reduced to a simple two words stretched out over the caller ID recognition:

Ari Marvin

Nick flipped the phone open brazenly. "Hello?" He paused, listening to the man's paradoxically beseeching impatience. "Yeah," Nick replied. "Within a week. I'll have it done within a week -- within a few days, hopefully." He listened again. "Sure, we still have a deal. Bye."

**

* * *

**

Please review! I promise that it gets a lot more intense after this. I was kind of concerned about the flow of the Nick video scenes, as it kind of felt like there were too many perspectives being represented. Feedback on that, no matter how brief or simple, would be greatly appreciated.

Thanks ;)

Harper


	30. Las Pesadillas

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Warning for implied NG sex of the angstier variety, implied WC activities of some sort and (separate) not-quite-explicit violence. Oh, and I know you may be finding the Cath/Warrick investigation boring at parts, at least in comparison to the NG relationship stuff, but trust me when I say -- DON'T SKIP THE CATH-WARRICK SCENE. It is important. Like really, really important. Thanks to LaughableBlackStorm for beta, and to Unity2008, Appreciates_Fine_Labrats, Maria-Elric05, CrystallineSolid, CrayonTyrant, Praetor_Corvinus, SuzSeb, Jenni, That_It_Is, Atticus, QueenOfTheUniverse, Longas91, YuugisGirl and one anonymous email reviewer for reviews on the last chapter! Your words of encouragement continue to brighten up my days and move this story forward. Sorry for the delay again. Standard disclaimers apply. Chapter title translates to 'Nightmares'.

CHAPTER 30: LAS PESADILLAS

_Greg squirmed around listlessly under the firm hands -- __Richie's and Biggs' -- __holding him down. _

_"Nah ah," Richie cooed. "You're not going anywhere. We're not done with you yet." He laughed. Even with five post-mortem bullets embedded in his chest, Richie still looked villainous and threatening. _

_"Uh!" Greg moaned, squirming still. "Stop it! Lemme go!" His voice was slurred from the pain and the blood loss. _

_Julian leaned over to stroke Greg's forehead in a mockingly comforting gesture. "Don't you worry, _Greggo_. We'll be done with you soon. You only have so much blood to lose, I'm sure."_

_Greg gave up something between a groan and a scream, protesting weakly against the hands pushing him down. Tears oozed from his eyes. Wide brown eyes looked up petrified and pleadingly at the men holding his life in their hands and dismissing it like a piece of trash to be left on the side of the road -- just as they did to him. As they _would_ do. _

_Tears clung to Greg's long dark eyelashes, clotting them together. Tears not caught in lashes continued to drip down his cheeks, over his forehead, down his chin and into his hair. Everywhere. Nothing stopped the tears. Nick wasn't there, and Nick would hardly have done anything to help had he been there. _

_"Please," Greg pleaded. "You don't have to do this! Please! Leave me alone. Let me go!"_

_Blood continued to pour out of Greg. Nick couldn't quite tell what the source exactly was. _Every_thing was the source. _Every_where on Greg was a source of more blood. _

_Greg's struggles lessened as the blood poured out like wine. Nick wondered where the blood went -- how it was that the blood didn't seep through the vehicle and weigh it down. _

_So much blood. _

_So many tears._

_So many cries of pain._

_So many perverse movements by the three men pinning and pushing Greg down -- pulling the life out of him._

_Pulling his life out like a ball of string slowly winding out of him, and the three men only continued to play with it, weaving what will and strength Greg had left into shapes of their own entertainment. _

_Only a matter of time. _

_"Please," Greg croaked, barely audible now. "Please don't._

_"Please don't," he repeated more softly. His face fell to the side and he sobbed. His voice was barely a whisper now, and Nick could see his eyes hit a haze only he could see. His mouth relaxed and pain finally eluded him as he continued to stare off into empty air. "Please help," he whispered. "Please help me."_

_His eyes so full of trust. Patience. Love. Believing that someone out there would hear him. That someone cared enough to stop his suffering. _

_That someone cared about him at all._

_His last words -- still almost hopeful._

_"Please help me, Nicky."_

_Julian roughly brushed tear-damp hair off of Greg's forehead. "No one's coming to help you," he said with a chuckle. "Nobody cares."_

_Greg looked up to meet Julian's laughing gaze and Greg's own eyes lost their sparkle and hope. _

_His head turned back to the side, and this time it was blank, flat, bitter. Hopeless. _

_He pursed his lips and said no more. _

_Ever. _

_His strength, blood, tears and hope slipped away under the three robbers' hands, and under Nick's apathy. _

Nick didn't shoot up in bed, as he had the first ten or so times he'd had the dream. By now, he merely rolled over, knowing that the dream wasn't going to go away. And he didn't want it to. He didn't _deserve_ to be freed of the vision.

He had let Greg down, and, for all Greg had suffered, Nick deserved, in the very least, to be left with the nightmares.

Thinking of the pain Greg had gone through -- not just in that last day with the robbers, but in so many years with Nick -- Nick tried to draw strength from his boyfriend's suffering -- strength enough to reach the hardest video.

* * *

Greg's face was different. That was the only way Nick could think to describe it -- the only way he _wanted_ to describe it.

_Different._

Like he'd been bleached and wrung out to dry in the Nevada desert. His sparkle was gone. He was the faded out leftovers devoured and spit out by Nick's obstinate aloofness.

_"What's up, Greg?" Sara asked cautiously. _Nick could tell that she knew something was wrong also. She was normally blunt -- _very_ blunt. But now her questions were hesitant. Tentative.

_Greg shrugged. His face remained emotionless._

_"Greg, spill. Playing tough doesn't accomplish anything."_

_He glanced off to the side, but not even to hide tears. _

_"I found it in his bed. In his room. _Our_ room. Except it's not as much our room as I thought." He finally turned to actually face the screen (which, presumably, included Sara). "There is no 'us'. We're just fuck buddies."_

_"Well, if he's ashamed of coming out of the closet -- I mean, he is from Texas and all and --"_

_"He's not ashamed of that." Greg laughed. "It has nothing to do with that. Nothing. I wish it did. That would be easier to handle. He just... he just doesn't care. That's _all_. It has nothing to do with me being a guy. It's me being _me_. It's not that he's ashamed to love me. It's that he just _doesn't_ love me. At all."_

_"Oh, Greg," Sara started sympathetically. _

_But Greg cut her off. "Don't do that. Just don't," he coolly admonished her. "He doesn't. End of story. In his words, we're just fuck buddies who share dish duty."_

_"What happened, Greg?" she asked, seemingly realizing that convincing Greg otherwise was no use. _

_He sniffed loudly, and Nick couldn't quite tell if Greg was pushing back a sob. _

_"I found them in the bed. And they're not mine, and they're not his either." _

* * *

Things had really started going downhill in 2006. Or maybe that had just been when all of the bad things -- all the problems in their relationship -- had come to a head. That was when Greg had worked up the tenacity to try to push the relationship for the last time. And Nick had pushed back just as hard. Nick had won, though in retrospect it didn't feel like a victory anymore.

Nick had won. Because destructive forces were easier to maintain than constructive ones. Because, up until then, they'd spent three years together -- with Greg trying to sneak little bits of cheesy sentimental romance into their relationship -- but, in the end, it was still easier, and quicker, to break Greg's heart.

_Greg leaned against Nick's shoulder on the couch. Cuddling. That's what it was. And Nick didn't cuddle. He shoved Greg off, but the younger man just leaned back again. _

_It had been going on for too long. _

_Every time Greg would try to make what they had -- fucking, sleeping and eating together -- into some grandiose fairy tale. Because it wasn't. They were just two guys. Just two young guys living together in the meantime, before something else -- something better -- came up. _

_Greg had tried to make it into something more. _

_Nick shoved the younger man's head off of his chest._

_"Stop it, man!"_

_Greg looked up, a slight trace of hurt in his eyes. But he relented. They had been through the same scenario so many times before. _

_Greg would push forward in little steps he seemed to think were too subtle for Nick to notice. Putting up photographs of the two men together, making cheesy candlelit dinners (which invariably ended in take-out) and trying to order matching dishtowels or other stupid household things (of course, before Nick canceled the orders). But Nick noticed. He just didn't bother refuting every one of them. He was a practical man, and he knew that it paid more to push back in large bursts. _

_Greg's overtures for something more were like weeds. _

_They would start growing a little, but it never paid to trim as soon as a single leaf was out of place. _

_No, what made sense was to wait until they'd overgrown -- until the foolish, pesky shrubs had gotten out of control -- and then to demolish them with one fail blow. _

_The song had been the last tolerable infraction -- the last particular leaf to trespass over the line before Nick had no choice but to obliterate them all._

_"This is our song, Nicky," Greg had announced without getting up. Nick stared at him -- more like _glared_ at him -- curiously. _

_Greg reached for the remote and flicked the song on. He beamed at Nick, but Nick could still see the insecurities burrowed underneath. As they should be, at least with _this_ type of song. _

_Nick didn't need to hear all of the lyrics. He got the message. Cheesy romance. And _that_ word. He thought he'd already established, over the course of the three years, that that word was not welcome in his home. Sure, he dropped it periodically, in joking. But never seriously. _

Don'cha never, never say that we we're through

'Cause I ain't never never, never, no, no loved --

_There it was -- _that _word. Nick snatched the remote and pressed stop._

_Then he pushed Greg off of him and growled. _

_He knew Greg knew the sign -- the younger man sulked off to his bedroom like a bratty kid denied his dessert. _

_Nick rolled his eyes. He'd been over this, but he knew how Greg just kept asking for more. It was ridiculous -- the things Nick had to put up with to keep a warm body next to him at night. Someone to split the household costs and take care of his morning wood. Someone in whom Nick could dispose of the days' stresses in a matter of thrusts. _

_He knew Greg would just keep asking for more, as if that all wasn't enough. Which meant today was one of those days -- one of the days to obliterate the little steps Greg foolishly continued to make. _

_Greg returned ten minutes later, just like Nick knew he would. He walked -- stomped -- confidently, finally making his way over to the couch. Still like a spoiled brat. He looked at Nick with a determined, childish glare. _

_Nick rolled his eyes and ignored the antics. _

_He heard the tears and knew he was in for Greg's next round of drama. _

_"Th-that song," Greg began. "It's what we've got."_

_Nick let a dry, sarcastic and solitary laugh out in response. "You don't need _songs_ to describe real people. Real --" He gestured between him and Greg -- "Real _things_ that people have."_

_Greg sulked for a few more seconds in silence before his face gave way to what Nick knew by experience was calculation. _

_"Did your parents have songs played at their wedding?"_

_Nick choked, spluttering on his beer. Greg instinctively reached over to help in some way -- what way Nick had _no_ idea -- but Nick wisely shoved the hands away. _

_"Yes," he replied, still holding back his smirk. "Yes, they did. But that has nothing to do with us."_

_"Your parents love each other," Greg stated. _

_Nick raised an eyebrow and nodded. _

_"Your siblings love their spouses."_

_Nick nodded again as he slumped more heavily against the couch, already bored and testy with the repetitive conversation. Sentimentality and marital prospects weren't what he wanted to discuss upon finally getting home from an 18-hour shift. And yet Greg persisted. _

_Nick was tired and he didn't want to have to deal with more Greg drama. "What's this got to do with us, Greg?"_

_Greg barely flinched. The younger man _had_ to have developed some sort of reflex by now -- to know that his own comments of that particular-four-letter-word variety always prompted the same response from Nick. But, then again, Nick was chagrined to realize, maybe he had been getting too soft lately. Sometimes he was just too tired to resist Greg's nauseatingly sweet talk. And sometimes he just couldn't help himself. But resisting it, he knew, was what he had to start doing. _

_Greg's voice started out like a trembling child at first, and Nick knew he had delivered his message. It wouldn't take much more from Nick to send Greg's precarious house of ridiculous romance cards flying down. "Wh-w --"_

_Nick laughed at Greg's stuttering. He leaned in to whisper in Greg's ears. He, unlike Greg, had no problem keeping his voice confident, clear and tremor-free. "Let me show you what _we_ have," he whispered mockingly._

_Greg said nothing, and Nick grabbed his boyfriend's wrists roughly before pushing down into the couch. He looped an ankle around to bring Greg's legs onto the couch as well, and Nick made his way for his boyfriend's mouth. _

_Nick's kisses were feverish and hard, while Greg's were soft and tentative -- more of a mandatory response. His hand barely brushed the light hair peppering the nape of Nick's neck to squeeze and rub in a minimal amount of passion. Nick lost no time shoving old boxers down Greg's legs. Nick was efficient. He finished within five minutes, and made sure Greg let loose first. _

_They laid, panting, after the shared exertion for a few minutes before Nick noticed the sound. And realized that, judging by the tears peppering Greg's cheeks, the drama wasn't over yet. _

_Nick huffed. _

_Greg seemed to sense the change in mood. Making no further attempts to cuddle, he shoved Nick off of him and made his way for the door. _

_"Where you goin', Greggo?" Nick asked playfully._

_Greg glared back at him. "I dunno."_

_Nick chuckled. "You gonna be back tonight?"_

_Greg's glare turned calculating. "Don't expect me back soon," he replied, seething. _

_Nick waited to let loose his laughter until the door was closed, with Greg on the other side. He could see Greg's strategy. The younger man seemed to think that he could force Nick into cheesy romance, sweet nothings and the like by withholding sex. _

_As if Nick couldn't get sex on his own, the Texan thought with a laugh. He reached over to call Pat Houston. He was a nice enough guy from back in Texas, and was always up for fun. _

_It was a pity that Nick had to use such means to show Greg. It was a pity that he worked night shift and, as a result, couldn't find any better options than Greg. He probably could, if he tried, but he didn't really feel like trying. The purpose of having someone like Greg was to decompress. To not _have_ to try. Everyone else in life expected something from him. It was Greg's job, at least as his job related to Nick's life, to _not_ ask anything of Nick. To just fuck and eat and take care of his half of the household chores without complaint or any large quantity of excess words or emotion. Decompress. Sex was supposed to be about abandoning all of life's other responsibilities elsewhere. He was supposed to feel safe and secure -- unpressured -- in his living arrangement with Greg. Yet sometimes -- far too often, really -- Greg would push and pressure him anyway. _

_And that left Nick with the perpetual task of teaching the younger man boundaries._

_Nick had a nice enough time with Pat that night. He left the other Texan's shiny, latex and clearly used (in that certain way) underwear on the bed. That ought to send Greg the message -- loud and clear. _

_He didn't understand how 'no strings attached' could be so hard. _

_Greg -- of course -- returned the next day. Nick might be able to get laid on his own, but Greg clearly wasn't capable of such feats. And the poor man was too weak and wimpy not to come back crying to Nick's arms. At least he didn't actually cry this time, Nick thought. But who knew how he would react when he saw the underwear on the bed. _

_But, really, that was the only option. Greg just didn't seem to understand. Hopefully -- _maybe_ -- this time, Greg would actually get over it and get the message, permanently this time. _

_Nick waited expectantly as he heard his exhausted bedmate make his way for the bedroom. Nick made sure to head over to the kitchen before Greg could react. He didn't want to have to deal with more of Greg trying to guilt-trip him by crying. It was never going to work, and Nick wasn't sure why Greg kept doing it. _

_Ten minutes later, Nick heard footsteps in the kitchen. _And here comes the drama_, he thought with a peeved sigh. _

_"That's what we are?" Greg whispered. "Fuck buddies?"_

_"Yes, and I don't understand how it is you _somehow_ manage to _forget_ that every few months," Nick replied bitterly. _

_"I get it," Greg replied quietly. His voice was surprisingly solid -- unwavering. Nick was proud of the younger man. "And I won't forget it again. I promise," Greg added quickly -- rushing -- in a small voice. Greg reached for his own breakfast -- whichever sugary cereal was available at the moment -- and moved toward the opposite side of the table. _

_Nick nodded before glancing up quickly from his cereal. He saw the light liquid in Greg's eyes, which he knew by now to just dismiss as allergies and/or sleepiness. _

_After that, Greg never tried to cuddle Nick again. And he kept his cheesy music to himself. _

* * *

Nick would never forget that conversation. And he was never able to get Greg's face that night out of his mind.

And he knew he didn't deserve to rid that face from his mind. He had been the one to cause it. Some piece of his mind had fought so hard to remember only the good times for the first two months after Greg's death.

But some other part -- probably his conscience -- had felt otherwise. He deserved to remember the bad times. He had broken the heart of someone who had loved him. Nick had thought it was stupid and manipulative for Greg to keep pushing as he had. Now, though, Nick realized that Greg had been right all along. That there _was -- _or now _had been_ -- something special between the two of them. And Greg hadn't been stupid or manipulative to keep trying to get Nick to see it.

Greg had been brave.

Brave and stupid to think that he could convince Nick of something more -- of that dreaded four-letter word. Love.

But he had been right too. Nick was convinced, but it was too late -- too late for the heartbroken face branded to the back of Nick's mind.

Too late, but he had to learn _something_ from it.

* * *

"So," Catherine began, pushing a hair back. "What do we have?"

Warrick looked up with a smile. "You tell me."

The pair was oddly refreshed after the memorial service, lunch with Lindsey and the accompanying day off. They could only look forward to the day that they weren't dealing with all of life's other woes -- specifically the lingering grief over Greg's death, the deficit in CSIs and their own "extracurricular" efforts to solve Tam Jared's case -- when they could finally sit down and have a real meal together.

But still, they kept it together. It was simply what they did. An essential part of who they were. While storms raged around them, they held strong. Despite their own time-exhaustive outside responsibilities, they held the team together.

"Tam Jared," Warrick started. Catherine didn't flinch this time at the name of her old friend.

"Something's fishy with the bullets," Catherine responded. "The shot that killed him wasn't the shot to the head, despite what the former Dr. Gary Schwartzgreiner wrote on his autopsy report."

Warrick nodded. They had already covered as much.

"And the shot that killed him wasn't from Ari's gun."

"No," Warrick confirmed. "It was from a snub-nosed revolver."

"Presumably, Tam Jared's snub-nosed revolver," Catherine added.

Warrick knitted his brows. "But that doesn't explain why Tam Jared would end up shot with his own gun."

"Well, people get shot with their own guns all the time. It's actually one of the most common causes for people getting shot. They carry around guns that they don't really know how to use --"

"Then they take them out, and the perp takes the gun away and shoots the gun's owner. Because the perp actually _does_ know how to use the gun," Warrick finished her explanation without looking up. "I know. I know the drill. But then why the other shot? Why shoot him in the head after he's already dead? And with a _different_ gun? What's the point of _putting_ the gun _down_, _then_ taking Ari's gun to shoot Tam when he's already dead? It just doesn't make sense!"

Warrick glanced off in time to catch Catherine staring off into space. "Catherine?" He waved his hand in front of her face. "You with me?"

"Huh?" Her head shot up. "Yeah! Yeah, I'm with you. And I think I've got it."

He looked at her curiously. "Got what?"

She grabbed his hand and pulled him up. It always amazed him just how much strength Catherine -- all 110 or so pounds of her -- had. Warrick Brown wasn't exactly an easy person to pull up.

"I know what we need. What we need to do next. What should solve it."

He looked at her suspiciously -- at least as well as he could while being dragged down the hallway.

"We need to get prints off of Ari's gun."

It hit him like a ton of bricks. She was right.

* * *

The results from the first set of prints were no surprise. Prints on the barrel of the gun -- what someone would touch if they were merely holding, _not_ shooting the gun -- came back to Ari Marvin.

Warrick breathed an uneasy sigh of relief. No surprises there. He wasn't sure how many surprises he could handle.

Next was the trigger. Warrick was careful as he dusted it. Triggers were difficult to pull prints from, and all the more difficult with a certain redhead looking over said print-duster's shoulder. Nonetheless, Warrick was someone who could work well under pressure.

The next print was running through the database as soon as he put down the tape. Catherine's agile hands had it moving quickly, and now it was only a matter of waiting.

Catherine pulled the results back from the printer and her face plummeted. Warrick was tempted to look over her shoulder, but opted not to. It wasn't his place and he knew it was best to let Catherine tell him in her own time. It wouldn't take her long.

"Manny Di Ricci," she whispered.

"Wait..." Warrick began in confusion. "That's the original vic from the casino heist. The DB that you guys went to the casino to investigate in the first place. Before..." He trailed off, knowing elaboration was unnecessary. "But Manny Di Ricci wasn't --"

"He was Bruce Jared's right-hand man. Or one of them. He was one of Bruce Jared's 'enforcers'. Probably his best enforcer."

Warrick began to nod slowly.

"Manny Di Ricci is the only man who pulled the trigger. His fingerprint is the only one on the trigger of the gun that killed Tam Jared."

Warrick gulped.

"He only did hits for Bruce -- for _Mr_. Jared."

Catherine slowly licked her lips and spoke slowly, reluctant and overwhelmed by the information pushing past her teeth. "Manny Di Ricci's fingerprints are on the trigger of the gun that killed Tam..."

Warrick helped her finish the statement. "And Manny Di Ricci only killed people because Bruce Jared told him to."

"B-Bruce Jared, Tam's father. He -- he..." Catherine stuttered. Warrick gently moved a large hand to pat her on the back, helping to ease the words out. But they weren't the words he expected, nor did he anticipate their haphazard, blurted escape from her mouth as her eyes met his...

"I have to go talk to Mr. Jared."

He panicked. "You can't go alone, Cath --"

"It'll be best. I'm sure it's a misunderstanding of some sort."

"But what if it's not? It might not be safe! I mean --"

Catherine placed a reassuring hand on Warrick's shoulder. "I'll bring a gun in case." She leaned in to try to talk soothingly to him. "I know what I'm doing, Rick. I've known Bruce for years. I _know_ him. I _knew_ Tam. We were friends. He was one of my dad's best friends. I'll _make_ it work. I'm sure there's some explanation. I saw Mr. Jared after Tam's death, and I've seen him in the years since. I _know_ his grief was real. He didn't kill his own son. There's some explanation and I'm gonna get to the bottom of it."

Warrick couldn't argue. He knew he had to trust Catherine. Trust was what their relationship was based on. He leaned over to kiss her on the forehead. She leaned into his embrace.

"Give me an hour," she whispered into his ear. "An hour with you. Then I'll go to see Bruce Jared."

Warrick nodded, and they headed for Catherine's car.

* * *

Catherine forced herself out of the car and toward the front door of Bruce Jared's formidable East Vegas ranch home.

His eyes were rimmed in red, which did nothing to help the years piled on to folded leathery skin by age. She had _thought_ that grief played a role too. Now she wondered how much was grief and how much was something else. He had put on a good thirty pounds over his previously stocky 5'9" physique, and his hair had safely passed over the grey threshold and in to white years ago.

"Catherine," he acknowledged her in greeting. His voice was nervous and lacked the normal friendly decorum she had come to expect of him, Sam and other similarly socially skilled businessmen.

Something was off, and she knew it.

"Mr. Jared," she began. "We need to talk."

He nodded, though she could read the exasperation barely veiled in his eyes. He motioned forward, clearing way from the door and moving toward a lavishly decorated parlor. The edges of the ceilings were practically gilded; it took an eye as trained as Catherine's to detect that the metallic yellow was not actually from gold. Photos of not-yet-forgotten showgirls and well-regarded celebrities posing with Mr. Jared graced the room, hanging at angles that could only be construed as tasteful modern art. For an entertainment room, even the decorations were very purposeful. There was no personality, but everything to convey venerability.

Had she not spent so many days immersed in Sam Braun's world, she knew even she would have been intimidated.

Nonetheless, her mission itself taxed her this time, causing a gentle fraying to her otherwise steadfast nerves.

She watched him lower himself gently onto a tall, formidable-looking gold-colored chair before seating herself, hand still close enough to her belt to raise the gun instantly, but far enough away not to attract unwanted attention to her reservations.

She felt her hand drift absentmindedly to her waist, where her gun sat concealed behind her worn leather jacket. She pulled the hand away, reluctant to draw attention. And Bruce Jared wouldn't kill her. She knew that. She _knew_ that. Didn't she?

Mr. Jared reached for a cigar sitting in a sloped mahogany case. It appeared to be already lit.

"What's this about, Muggs?"

She barely winced at the nickname used almost exclusively by her late father, but didn't let her discomfort show.

"I believe I already called you," she began. "About an investigation."

He stared pensively for one drawn out moment before replying, tone and pace leisurely as he inhaled a drag from the cigar. "I thought the investigation into the theft had been closed. It was just eating up taxpayer money, and I would have made more money to give back in taxes in that time anyway," he said with a self-indulgent smirk.

"One of my co-workers died that night, Mr. Jared." Her tone was cold, in an attempt to hide the edginess in her voice. She kept her posture straight and her face flat. Emotion was unnecessary, as she knew her words alone conveyed the needed effect.

His face dropped instantly. "I'm sorry for your loss, Catherine."

She nodded, not dropping a muscle on her face. "That's not the investigation I came to talk to you about."

His face dropped for a second, but he quickly composed himself. "What other investigation would concern me? I'm sure all others would fit under the blanket of confidentiality."

She cleared her throat. The second she brought up Tam's case, all matters could explode across the parlor. She had to set the rules before he broke down the conversation in entirety and kicked her out, or simply forced her to change the subject. She could only get so much cooperation. She knew Bruce Jared well enough, and her phone conversation with him earlier confirmed to her that some things never changed. He was not unlike Sam in most ways -- a man of power who knew very well his own strength; and not just how expansive his own strength was, but also, very precisely, its limits. She needed absolute control of the conversation to get him to budge. She needed to get out why it was she had that control before he had a chance to refute it.

"Mr. Jared, we found Manuel Di Ricci's prints on the trigger of the gun that killed Tam."

His look of shock only lasted a moment, and that in and of itself shocked Catherine. "Well, I --"

"There were no other fingerprints on the trigger."

Mr. Jared had the repose not to gag like a fish in his speechlessness, but rather to sit silently, brow furrowed and staring pensively into space, before he regained control of his own part of the conversation. "Well, then someone probably wiped the gun down."

"I can tell nobody did. There are no indications of a surface wiping across the trigger. It was Di Ricci's print and Di Ricci's alone. There was no other print there before his."

This time Mr. Jared came closer to gagging like a fish.

Catherine took a deep breath before pushing out the question that needed to be asked -- the one whose answer neither Catherine nor Mr. Jared fully wanted to acknowledge.

"Can you explain to me why your right hand man's fingerprints were the only ones found on the trigger of the gun that killed your son?"

"It's complicated, Catherine, and I can't --"

A ringing phone interrupted his halfhearted explanation. He practically jumped back when he stared down at the phone -- implicitly reading the caller ID. His hand flew back from the phone as if burned on contact with the name scrawled on the small, off-grey Blackberry screen.

"He -- he's --" Mr. Jared stuttered, wide-eyed as he stared at Catherine. "He's coming. You've got to hide."

"But I've got a --" Catherine reached for the pistol hidden at her waist, but Mr. Jared brushed her hand away. "I don't want you to take the risk," he said simply as his eyes met hers.

In that moment, Catherine knew what Mr. Jared was willing to walk into to conceal the truth. She could see the goodbyes written in his eyes. And no matter what he'd done -- no matter what kind of person past ambiguous misdeeds contributing to Tam's death made him -- he wasn't willing to let Catherine go down with him, even if she had a gun and could have helped avert whichever momentous crisis was now breaking down Bruce Jared's door. She had to respect him for it, and that only confused her more.

"Hide, Catherine," he ordered. She complied, not knowing who it was that was already barging into the home, almost knocking down the door.

She forced herself into the first closet door she saw.

The banging at the door grew louder, and she heard the door break. She breathed deeply, willing away scared thoughts of Lindsey growing up motherless. At least she had Warrick.

Mr. Jared seemed truly scared of the man, whoever he was. Catherine knew how to use a gun, but it was still a one-on-one situation -- not one she would ever feel particularly comfortable in. Add in the risk of an unarmed civilian who this mysterious 'he' seemed intent on terrorizing, and she wasn't willing to place any bets. Even Warrick wouldn't have.

Raised voices echoed over the room and she held still.

_*POP*_

The discharging gun stopped her heart temporarily. She was reluctant to admit to herself just how much getting shot in the shoulder that night had frightened her. Ari had made clear that it hadn't been his intention for anyone -- perhaps even Manny Di Ricci -- to be harmed that night, but the experience had still chilled her more than she cared to admit.

She wondered who that bullet came for. There was no second pop of a bullet, from which she drew some relief. She tried again to draw a deep breath.

She was prepared for angry words between Bruce Jared and the at-first mystery man as the man forced Mr. Jared out of the house and into a car outside. She was even prepared to hear the name 'Ari Marvin' caught between the mystery man's commanding words.

What she wasn't prepared for was the man's familiar Texas drawl.

* * *

Please review. (You know you want to.) Which of Nick's actions are you angrier/more concerned about? Did you understand the case stuff in this chapter? I promise that there will be more case summary to come, in case you're a bit confused. I would also be happy to answer any questions about the case for anyone who is confused, so, if you have any questions or need clarification, feel free to leave them in a review ;) Also, props to anyone who can figure out what song Greg was using (and perhaps why).

-Harper


	31. Los Pecados del Padre

**Author's Note:** Yes, finally an update. This was originally going to be two separate chapters, but, because I was feeling generous (*cough* because I am so behind, left you guys without an update for so long and am trying to get this done in time for the CSIFanficawards deadline, and, more importantly, because it flows better as one super-long chapter than as two relatively long ones), I am combining what would have been Chapters 31 and 32 into a single chapter. This is betaed by LaughableBlackStorm, but I wrote the last Warrick/Cath/Wendy scene at the last minute last night, so that's unbetaed and all mistakes are especially mine there. I don't own CSI or any related entities and make no money off of this. The title translates to 'Sins of the Father'.

CHAPTER 31: LOS PECADOS DEL PADRE

Nick stared at the road. It was all he could do. Disappointed, heartbroken brown eyes lingered in his mind, long eye lashes wet with tears. Not Nick's own eyes, but the ones he missed so much.

He had let the most important person in his life down. He had betrayed someone who loved and trusted him completely -- or at least someone who once had. He couldn't deny that their relationship had changed after that one unfortunate night. Perhaps Greg had finally learned to stop loving him after the _incident_. After Nick's infidelity, even though he had seen no signs of commitment at the time.

Nick couldn't decide if that possibility -- that Greg hadn't loved him anymore in the end -- made it easier or harder to deal with. He was left with the conclusion that it didn't matter. Because Greg was still dead and Nick had still let him down.

Still, voices shuddered through his mind, and he was reminded that, as sad as it was, he hadn't been the worst. He hadn't hurt Greg Sanders the most.

At least he could blame the man handcuffed to the passenger seat of his car, Bruce Jared. He could blame Bruce Jared for not coming in the end, and Ari for causing it all in the first place.

**

* * *

**

Warrick stared at his own findings. He was eager but nervous to present them to Catherine, hoping that they would ease her own worries. She hid her concerns and sorrow well -- even when she found the prints on the gun that pointed back to Manny Di Ricci, the vic from the casino heist who just so happened to be Mr. Jared's right-hand man. But he knew that that discovery -- the one that all but screamed that her old and beloved friend had been killed by his own father, who was a family friend of Catherine's in his own right -- had rocked her to the core, just as so many -- _far_ too many -- aspects of the case thus far had done as well. He knew her grief, and he looked forward to alleviating it with his new discovery.

But then he saw her walk through the door.

"What happened?"

Warrick stared at the mess that was the usually infallible and largely unflappable Catherine Willows.

She responded by grabbing his hand and half dragging him toward the nearest empty room.

"You want a..." he stumbled out the beginnings of his question, confused, but she interrupted with the shake of a head.

"Nick," she breathed out, finally.

"But I thought you went to Bruce Jared's house?" he whispered as they backed into the room and Catherine almost absentmindedly dead bolted the door behind them.

"Catherine," he whispered urgently and grabbed her wrist to get her attention.

She met his gaze at last. "You want to know everything?"

He raised his eyebrows in disbelief. Of course he did. "Yeah." He pushed his own planned words to the back of his mind.

She cleared her throat and met his gaze again. "I went to Bruce Jared's house."

Warrick nodded. "He confessed?" Every piece of evidence that Warrick had just unearthed told him that couldn't be. Then again, this case, along with every death and crime surrounding Ari Marvin, continued to surprise Warrick, disproving so many of his expectations. The wise poker player that he was, Warrick chose to give up even trying to predict the next revelations of the case. On every guess he'd made, he felt like he'd bet another small piece of his own sanity, and he only continued to lose. Simply put, nothing was as he expected.

Catherine shook her head. "Not in so many words."

Warrick stared, puzzled, down at Catherine from where they stood next to an old layout table. "But that means he --"

"Whether he did it isn't what's important," Catherine replied. Her face held a disquieting urgency -- one that Warrick was always drawn to, no matter the circumstances or mission. Whatever it was that was going on, he knew he would follow her implicitly. That sort of urgency rarely flared across her gaze, and when it did, he couldn't help telling himself that he just _owed_ it to her to follow. That was the reason he gave himself, anyway.

"What _is_ important then?" he asked quietly.

"Nick."

He found himself staring in confusion once again. "So we'll focus on the case later, and on Nick now? You know, he seems like he's actually been getting better..."

He trailed off when he saw Catherine shaking her head.

"I was talking to Mr. Jared," she began, as if it were part of some broader explanation. "We were talking, and I brought it up. He started trying to refute the evidence, insisting that there must be something we missed or that there must have been other fingerprints."

Warrick nodded as she paused.

"But he didn't get far." She cleared her throat. "He got a phone call." Her voice grew slower as she forced herself through the events as if just digesting them for the first time herself. "He started freaking out. I tried to understand. Then the door.... There was banging. Lots of it." She met Warrick's eyes -- or met them with more intensity than previously. "He told me to hide. Said the man at the door was dangerous. I hid. There was a scuffle of some sort. Mr. Jared left." She paused again. "That's when I heard it. Heard _him_," she corrected. "Nick."

Warrick spluttered on air. "W-wait. You think Ari, or whoever it is, has Nick too?" Adrenaline burst through his veins as if the levees had just broken on his own sense of urgency and purpose. He couldn't let something happen to his friend. Sure, he had been there for Nick, to a degree. But it still didn't feel like _enough_. The largest part of him had wanted -- had _always_ wanted -- to let Nick work it out. Because that was just how they were. They were friends -- good friends, _best_ friends, as Warrick at least had long thought -- and with that, they were not only willing to support each other, but also to give each other room. They were good friends and knew not just when to support each other, but when to trust that the other could deal with whichever problem was meeting him. Now, Warrick couldn't help but think that he had misjudged Nick's ability to cope with whatever his latest problems were by a long shot. _A bad friend_, Warrick chided himself. _That's what I am._

Catherine met his gaze sympathetically. She seemed to understand his inner conundrum, now turned to pure and simple guilt. "Nobody took Nick hostage," she said quietly.

"Then how did you hear his voice?" Warrick asked. It didn't make sense and, in all of his trusting nature, Warrick couldn't understand how Nick could be anything but the victim of such a scheme. He couldn't imagine it. It just didn't compute, and he didn't bother to recognize the possibility that was, without a doubt, outside of the realm of realistic possibilities. And yet that possibility sat patiently in the back of his mind, despite his efforts to dispel it.

"He was the man. The man that Mr. Jared was afraid of."

Warrick blanched. "No..." he started. "Not Nicky. Nicky wouldn't do that." He shook his head. "That can't... that can't be." He turned to glare at Catherine. "You must have misunderstood. You were stressed out and afraid, and you misheard. Because otherwise it just doesn't make sense." His voice grew louder and more adamant by the syllable.

Catherine's gaze was acquiescent, but he knew she was acquiescing to the truth -- or at least to her account of it -- rather than to his words. "Warrick, it was him. I heard him force Mr. Jared out the door. At first I thought it wasn't him. At first, when I heard the banging, I tried to dismiss it. I tried in my head to pretend --"

Warrick knew that wasn't something Catherine even did. She wasn't one to hide from the truth. She wasn't one to try to convince herself otherwise to make something seem better. She took everything as it was, and accepted it, albeit begrudgingly at times.

Still, Warrick continued to shake his head. It just didn't make sense. It didn't make sense. Nick wouldn't do that. _Nicky_ wouldn't _do_ that.

Maybe if he repeated that mantra in his mind enough times, it would change the tone that he knew read honesty in Catherine's voice. Maybe it would shift her words and make them false.

But it didn't work.

He knew she was telling the truth.

"No." He shook his head, feeling disparate, cold waves of reality strike and wash over him. It couldn't be, but it was.

"I think it was for Ari," Catherine said quietly.

"What do you mean?"

She looked at him suspiciously, with a smirk reading plain as day that he must have gone temporarily stupid. "Why else would he go running after Mr. Jared? Why else would he threaten Mr. Jared? Ari wants revenge, and Nick wants something – maybe Greg's body – from Ari."

Now, Warrick knew, was the time to release the new information. "Well, if he wants revenge, Bruce Jared isn't the person to go for."

"Yes, he is," Catherine insisted incredulously. "He killed Tam --"

"No, he didn't," Warrick replied. "Manny Di Ricci --"

Catherine rolled her eyes and interrupted. "Manny Di Ricci was _hired_ by Bruce Jared. Manny Di Ricci was Bruce Jared's right-hand man. Manny Di Ricci did Bruce Jared's bidding. Manny Di Ricci didn't kill people on his own accord. He killed people because Bruce Jared told him to. Everything on his police record indicates as much."

"He'd do anything for Mr. Jared," Warrick replied slowly. "Right?"

Catherine nodded her head in slight confusion and aggravation, her raised eyebrows urging Warrick to go forward with what was, she seemed to know, a ridiculous argument.

"He cared about Mr. Jared. A lot."

"So?" Catherine asked slowly.

Warrick picked up the files he'd been looking at. The first one contained birth records for an Antonio Luca Riccini.

"So what? He changed his name," Catherine replied, still incredulously. "Plenty of crooks do it. Plenty of regular people do it too. I contemplated changing mine back to Flynn enough times, and once or twice even to Braun."

Warrick gulped, seeing they were entering dangerous territory. Catherine rarely brought up Sam – not in this very personal context. "It's different, Catherine. Trust me."

"Fine," she said, seeming to temporarily disband her armory of disbelief.

Warrick breathed a sigh of relief. He pulled out an official form listing Di Ricci's name change.

"Manny Bruce Di Ricci," Catherine read. She looked back up at Warrick quickly. "Whoever wrote this listed his nickname, Manny, rather than his real first name. The only thing that's conspicuous about this, aside from whoever wrote this listing his nickname, Manny, rather than his first name, is that he changed his middle name to Bruce. Other than that..."

Warrick shook his head. "The first name is the consicuous part," he said. "His full first name _isn't_ Manuel."

"_Em_manuel then?" Catherine asked.

He shook his head again and pushed the next set of papers forward, these ones covered in webs and diagrams. "I did some research – a _lot_ of research – and got lucky on a hunch."

After a second, she recognized them. "Genealogical charts."

"Bingo."

"But what do these have to do with –"

He wasn't normally one to interrupt women (or anyone for that matter), but he knew the question off her lips before two full syllables were out. "Do you know what Manny stands for?"

"Uh, Manuel..." Catherine replied, raising an eyebrow, clearly in response to the obviousness of the answer.

"Not just that."

She scrunched up her brows, thinking. She looked adorable when she did that, Warrick thought.

"You're not gonna get it," he said, relieving her of the mental search. "I didn't either," he reassured her.

"Spill."

A new paper came out, this one from Wikipedia.

Catherine smirked. "Some hard research, huh?"

Warrick shrugged, but smiled. "It's all about knowing what to look for." He put the paper in front of her and watched her skim.

"Manny," she read. "A former title in the English peerage, held in the fourteenth century?"

She looked up at Warrick suspiciously, waiting for more. He, in turn, passed the genealogical charts toward her. She eyed them, sorting through them, but he handed her the appropriate page. He didn't want her to be stuck sorting through every last descendent of Walter De Manny, the first Baron Manny.

"Bruce Jared is a descendent of some old English somebody," Catherine replied. Then she paused, clearly lost in thought. "I think I remember him mentioning something like that. Bragging about it even." Her eyes grew wide as she paused again. "No," she said with a sad gasp. "_Tam_ was the one bragging about that... or at least being excited about it."

Warrick nodded, though he hadn't actually seen Tam. But based on everything (and there was a lot) that he'd heard of the young man over the course of the investigation, he wasn't surprised. Tam seemed like the kind of boy – man, since he had, technically, been a legal adult, despite the way Catherine seemed to perpetually describe him as a young innocent boy – that would have been excited by such an air of mystery and importance and novelty. He remembered Catherine's description of her first interaction with the boy – how he'd pointed at the wall, then graced by a picture of young singer Tammi Terrell and insisted that Catherine call him Tammi, after the seemingly glamorous, beautiful (and, sadly, ultimately tragic, having lived only four more years than Tam) singer. He had chosen Tam as a name for the rest of his life because it was different. Catherine had said that he lived for flamboyance and liked the nickname not just for its gender ambiguity, but also for its Scottish roots, which he termed "more exotic".

Catherine distracted him from his thoughts. "So Di Ricci changed his name to be more like Bruce Jared. To feel like he was a part of the family."

Warrick nodded. "I did some more research into his charges as well. He was released every time, because they could never convict him. But every time, he sent letters – countless letters – out to Bruce Jared, along with a handful to a few other people, while he was in prison. One of them didn't make it to Jared. It was intercepted by jail security for some reason."

He handed the letter to Catherine. "Manny Di Ricci doesn't seem like he was much into writing," she observed. "Shaky, juvenile handwriting at twenty-five years old. Half of it is in caps when it shouldn't be and, altogether, it's almost illegible." She glanced up at Warrick. "Judging by the way it's written, it looks like he didn't go to school."

Warrick nodded. "According to one account at a hearing on a case he was connected to, Bruce Jared taught him how to read and write. He credited Jared with teaching him everything he knows."

Catherine raised an eyebrow.

In response to the question she didn't have to ask, he added, "I don't know whether that includes teaching him how to beat people up."

Catherine gave a small, wistful nod. "So," she said softly.

"Letters and general reports of his behavior indicate that Manny Di Ricci was slightly obsessed with his employer. Di Ricci effectively disowned his own father shortly after he met Mr. Jared. The lengths he was willing to go to for the man – I'd say he wanted to be Jared's son."

Catherine nodded in understanding, her eyes widened in numbed shock. "Any proof that he was jealous of Tam? Any animosity between them?"

Warrick nodded, passing forward another letter. "This one was sent to Tam Jared in August of 1985, shortly before Tam's murder. It was confiscated by Postal authorities because of cocaine residue found on the envelope."

Catherine nodded and moved to read it aloud. "Yoor a pathatic sun, Tam, and Mistr Jared desarves better than a f**got lik yoo."

Catherine winced at the third-to-last word.

"Apparently Bruce Jared didn't teach him _that_ much about spelling," Warrick said with an awkward chuckle, trying to diffuse Catherine's hurt at reading such hate.

"I'm glad Tam never had to see this," she said shakily.

Warrick shook his head sadly. "I have a feeling that he had to deal with worse from Manny Di Ricci."

Catherine's head shot up, but then – as he could see in her eyes – it dawned on her. "Manny Di Ricci killed him. He killed Tam on his own. Because of jealousy. Mr. Jared never asked him to."

Warrick nodded grimly, but was pleased to see the smile peaking out over Catherine's face. He knew her relief as well as if it were his own.

She breathed peacefully for a few minutes, slowly taking in and really realizing what Warrick's discovery meant.

Finally, she looked up. "So what do we do now?" she asked, her voice reinvigorated.

"Well, I'd guess that we have to find Nick," he replied.

She remained still for a moment, and he could see her mind running. Her face lit up for the third time that day. "Wendy."

Warrick thought for a second before realizing how right she was.

* * *

Wendy leaned in toward the kit, her concentration fixed. She bit her lip as she swiped the lightest veil of printing dust across the surface. Surely she would find the right answers this time.

Surely she would find a print that didn't match Greg or Sara.

She didn't notice the person behind her until it was too late -- or, perhaps, right on time.

"What are you doing?" Catherine's voice was authoritative and, to Wendy, rather frightening.

The CSI trainee flinched in shock and instinctively spun around to face the older woman, even as she tried to shield the kit in the process.

"Um... practicing my printing."

Catherine raised an eyebrow and Wendy grew more nervous. Apparently, it was the rite of DNA techs (or rather ex-DNA techs) to be made nervous by supervising CSIs. She knew her shaking was probably visible to both CSIs now staring her down from a few feet away.

"That's creative," Warrick said pleasantly, prompting a sigh of relief from Wendy. He believed her.

"Why Sara's kit?" Catherine asked.

Wendy started again, and her heart leapt back to what felt like 200 beats per minute.

"You mean Greg's kit," Warrick corrected.

Catherine turned to glare at Warrick. "_No_, I mean _Sara's_ kit."

"That's Greg's kit. I remember lecturing him on using it right, and working a scene with him. I specifically remember seeing that scrape on the side of it and telling him to get it fixed."

"That's Sara's kit. I was just working a scene with her, and she had that kit," Catherine replied.

Warrick and Catherine stared each other down for a few seconds, during which time Wendy crossed her fingers that they'd forget about their initial accusations.

Nonetheless, Catherine bit her lip. "That's beside the point."

Wendy gulped.

Warrick spoke again, and Wendy could see that whatever dissent had occurred in the ranks between the two had now cleared up. And it was two against one again. Not in her favor. "What were you doing with the kit?" He paused, correcting himself. "Actually, that's beside the point."

Wendy couldn't help noticing the way he picked up Catherine's words so easily.

"What he means is," Catherine said, picking up the slack for her partner, "what were you doing with Nick?"

Wendy gulped. "Wha-what do you mean?"

"That vacation you guys took?" Catherine's trademark interrogation smirk showed, and Wendy knew she was in for a show -- and one at her own expense.

"Y-yes. We went on vacation together. I talked to you about it before."

"It was more than a vacation," Warrick stated confidently.

Wendy didn't reply, refusing to either confirm or deny the allegation.

"So what was it, if not a vacation?" Catherine asked.

Wendy hesitated again before replying. "Who said it wasn't a vacation?"

Catherine raised her eyebrows and exchanged a knowing smirk with Warrick. Wendy shivered.

"Trust me," Catherine said, smirk still in place. "We know it wasn't a vacation."

"H-how do you know that?" Wendy tried to control the stutter taking over her speech.

"Because going on vacations with women isn't exactly Nick's thing," Warrick replied with a smirk. Wendy hadn't expected Warrick to speak of his friend's sexuality with such nonchalance. Still, he was right, and that made Wendy pale visibly.

"You knew?" she asked.

"Yeah," Catherine smirked as well, with a comically timed pause. "We knew."

Wendy hung her head, unsure of how to proceed.

"Let's just cut to the chase," Warrick spoke, moving himself at a diagonal, not quite between Catherine and Wendy, but close enough. "We know that Nick is up to something."

"And we know that you have something to do with it," Catherine chimed in.

Wendy couldn't bring herself to look up. "I wasn't supposed to tell."

Catherine sighed. "Of course you weren't. But now you _have_ to. Because Nick is getting himself in trouble."

Wendy looked up, confused. "But he said he was stopping it."

"Which is why you're still processing that kit?" Warrick asked dubiously.

"Well, no --" Wendy stuttered. "_Nick_ was stopping. He told me he was stopping -- and he told _me_ to stop. I just didn't want to stop..." She trailed off. "I started and I just... couldn't stop." She looked up to gage Catherine and Warrick's expressions, which, surprisingly, read of something other than disapproval.

"Wendy," Catherine began. "Everything you've been doing with Nick has been stupid -- _really_ stupid and _really_ dangerous."

She paused, and Wendy could do nothing but wait for the chastisement.

"What you just said, however -- that really does tell me that you truly are a CSI at heart."

Wendy took a moment to process the words, but, when she did, she beamed. "Thanks. It's just... investigating. It's so boring at first, but so..."

"Fulfilling?" Warrick asked.

"Yes! That's it! But not just that. It's the answers. It's the questions. I -- I just can't let go. And when I actually solved a case -- that first case, even though it was really small -- I just feel like --"

"King Kong on cocaine?" Catherine asked with a smile, wide and understanding.

Wendy tilted her head, pondering the image. "Well... yes. That's _it_."

Catherine turned to Warrick with a still-big smile. "Well, whatever else happens, we've definitely found our new CSI."

Wendy chuckled nervously, but happily.

It was Warrick's turn to clear his throat authoritatively. "That's assuming we don't fire your sorry ass for whichever illegal activities you were doing with Nick."

Wendy's smile fell once again. "I -- but -- it's for Greg!"

When Warrick and Catherine smiled simultaneously, Wendy realized she'd been had. "You weren't really going to fire me, were you?"

Catherine just smiled predatorily in response. "Tell me everything and we'll let you keep your job."

"But I don't have the job yet," Wendy replied, confused.

"Spill if you ever want to work for any crime lab again," Warrick clarified helpfully. "If you want to finish this project you've got going or solve another mystery."

Wendy gulped. "Fine."

**

* * *

**

Warrick and Catherine waited patiently as Wendy took out her files. They followed her to her locker, not quite watching her every move, but close enough. She could understand why. She wasn't exactly in the position of being terribly trusted at the moment.

Having unearthed the files, she charged back to the layout room, Catherine and Warrick in tow. She handed one each to Catherine and Warrick as soon as they got through the door. They accepted the folders, but continued to look at Wendy, waiting.

"You guys can read them," she said, eyebrow raised.

"_Or_ you can get some CSI experience by explaining what you've found," Warrick said with a chuckle.

Wendy nodded. A presentation. Joy.

"Evidence suggests that Greg wasn't killed in the casino," she began. Warrick and Catherine looked up simultaneously in shock.

"Warrick," Wendy said, motioning for the man, "Ari used his gun to knock you out when you stepped out of your SUV. Which is why a burnt hair matching your DNA was in the trigger of the gun --"

"But where did you find the gun?" Catherine asked. Warrick simply stood there, silent and puzzled.

"I'm getting there," Wendy replied. "But that comes later."

Catherine nodded, and Wendy continued, proud to have the full attention -- and, presumably, the authoritative knowledge in this case. Catherine Willows and Warrick Brown were deferring to _her_.

"A bullet from the gun was found in the parking lot where Warrick brought the SUV, and, presumably, where the robbers dragged Greg out of the casino before fleeing."

Catherine and Warrick both nodded. There was no reason to doubt Wendy's assessment of the vehicle, and her evidence spoke for itself.

"The angle of the bullet found suggests that it was fired accidentally at an upward angle."

Feeling energized and impassioned by her findings, Wendy reached for a bouncy ball -- judging by the custom design, which looked to include a Vulcan ear, she was fairly certain it belonged to Archie or Hodges -- and threw it into the air as a demonstration. It flew up, peeking a foot or so under the ceiling, before bouncing down a foot away from Wendy.

Warrick nodded. "What goes up must go down."

"Exactly," Wendy replied. "But, unless it's fired at a 90˚ angle, it wouldn't land in the same place it was fired from." Remembering what the parking lot looked like, she could easily visualize the trajectory, along with where Warrick, Greg and whichever robber fired the gun must have been standing.

"Good job," Warrick said. "We won't even make you plot out the trajectory for us. Because we're nice."

Catherine smirked. "Because we're in a _hurry_."

Wendy nodded, remembering why it was that the redhead had always intimidated her. Greg had insisted that Grissom was the more intimidating presence, but she had always found the opposite to be true --

"Wendy?"

Wendy looked up from her distractions, blushing. "Yes... um, sorry. Where was I?"

Catherine smirked, but it was a friendly smirk, and Wendy could _almost _see herself really becoming friends with her superwoman supervisor.

Warrick broke the silence to ask the obvious question. "Then what happened to Greg?"

Wendy could see the hope in his eyes echoed in Catherine's, though it was more visible in Catherine's. Warrick was a poker player -- or at least he used to be -- but Catherine was a mother. And Greg, as Wendy had learned over time, had been like a son to Catherine, or at least like an unruly ward to the older woman.

"Um..." Wendy started. It was hard to be the one to break the bad news. Nonetheless, she commenced. "Evidence... led us to the factory where Greg was killed. Actually, it's called a maquiladora."

She saw Catherine flinch and a tiny wisp of light dim in Warrick's eyes at the news. Catherine sighed. "So it's no different than we thought. He was just killed somewhere else." Her eyes met Wendy's and the younger woman's turned down, not yet ready to explain that it hadn't been exactly the same as the death they thought had happened outside the casino.

Both CSIs, of course, caught her discomfort. "There's something else, isn't there, Wendy?" Catherine asked in a soft voice. "He wasn't shot like we thought. They hurt him more."

Wendy blinked, still looking down. "We never found his body, so we don't actually know," she replied, echoing Catherine's quiet tone.

Catherine gave a small nod and closed her eyes briefly. "Just as well."

Wendy cleared her throat as quietly as she could. "We found blood at the maquiladora."

Warrick's head perked up. "Greg's?"

Wendy shook her head. "There were three splatters of blood. Two women and a man. A Jane Doe -- Jane Doe #89, according to Ciudad Juárez records -- was found dead there. Richie Hedd raped and killed her."

Catherine sighed. "I wish I could say I was surprised."

"Richie was found dead in the same maquiladora. Evidence suggests someone else killed him shortly after he killed Jane Doe."

"Within an hour or two?" Catherine guessed.

"Probably."

"Is there any definitive proof that links the maquiladora to Greg, other than Richie?" Warrick asked. "I mean he sounds like a pretty... dislikable guy." He glanced over at Catherine for confirmation, a gesture that was not lost on Wendy.

"Yeah," Catherine nodded. "I'm sure plenty of people could find plenty of good reasons to kill him. Raping and killing a local -- I'm assuming she was a local?"

Wendy nodded. "Kind of. Presumably, she lived in Juárez, although most of the girls working at the maquiladoras in Juárez are originally from other parts of Mexico. That's why they're so vulnerable. They come to the city to work in the factories without any family support. When they disappear, nobody notices or cares immediately."

Catherine sighed, and Wendy wondered if she was thinking of her own daughter. "Regardless," Catherine began. "I'm sure someone could find a good reason to kill him. They probably saw what he was doing and then killed him. Or maybe Jane Doe even stabbed him or something and he just bled out after she did."

"That's the thing. Richie Hedd wasn't stabbed. He was beaten to death."

"Did Jane Doe look capable of beating a man to death?"

"No," Wendy replied. "And especially not after being as injured as she was."

Catherine paused in thought, brows furrowed. Warrick's expression was much the same. Cutting their soon-to-be guesses off, Wendy gave away the last piece.

"He was beaten to death and _then_ shot."

"Wait... beaten to _death _and shot _after _--" Warrick began.

Wendy interrupted him in her excitement. "He was shot five times, all post-mortem." She cleared her throat before effectively dropping the hammer. "With the same gun that was used to knock Warrick here on the head." She imitated whacking Warrick on the head, and he playfully batted her hand away with a smirk.

Catherine, however, looked to be deep in thought. "What gun _was_ it?" she asked Wendy.

"A snub-nosed revolver, registered to a --"

"Tam Jared." Catherine and Warrick spoke at the same time.

Wendy stared at them in shock, and they stared in equal surprise at her.

There was, without a doubt, some explaining to do.

* * *

"We're working the same case," Wendy said, astonished.

"Sort of," Warrick replied. "Different victim, different COD... TOD..."

"But the same weapon," Catherine said, not quite interrupting. "And apparently that same weapon was used to kill Richie Hedd in Ciudad Juárez as well."

"So..." Warrick began, looking for one of the women to offer a next step or suggestion.

Wendy jumped in. "What do you guys have?"

Catherine shied a glance at her partner, and he nodded his head.

And so she laid the cards out.

"We have Tam Jared. He was killed on September 9th, 1985."

"With the snub-nosed revolver?" Wendy asked.

Catherine nodded.

"So... with his own gun?"

"Yes." Reading the look on Wendy's face, she responded pre-emptively. "But he didn't kill himself."

"So who did then?"

Catherine bit her lip. Things weren't always that simple, though surely Wendy knew that already, having just almost-solved the parallel case at the casino.

"Well," Catherine began. "This is what we know..."

She handed Wendy the notes they'd finally accumulated on Manny Di Ricci and his role in Tam Jared's death. Wendy quickly read through the file, much of which looked to have been scrawled quickly by Warrick.

Yet something wasn't quite connecting in her head. The last part...

"You have proof that Bruce Jared wasn't at the scene?" she asked, stealing glances at her colleagues.

Catherine and Warrick exchanged surprised expressions. "Why does that matter?" Catherine asked.

"Because my evidence says he probably _was_ there."

Catherine and Warrick both looked at her in pure, horrified shock.

But she still pulled out the handkerchief.

"DNA evidence on this shows fresh blood from one Tam Jared mixed with tears from one Bruce Jared. According to witness statements, the handkerchief was originally seen at the scene of Tam Jared's death."

The three stood in silence.

* * *

"This is for Ari, isn't it?" Bruce Jared asked from his position, handcuffed to the passenger side door.

Nick didn't respond, opting instead to keep driving. He didn't know the full story about Mr. Jared. He didn't want to know either. Greg had always cautioned him against getting so personally involved in cases. It was a pity that Greg's mistake of that variety had been the one to cost a life -- that, in the end, it was Greg who chose to make the foolish gamble with his own life over something so arbitrary as a safe, even if it was one filled with pounds of gold. Though, perhaps that wasn't a personal decision. Perhaps it was the utmost sacrifice of a true public servant. Greg had tried so hard to prove himself as a member of LVPD, and he had died trying.

This man, though -- this man could have prevented that. This man could have prevented Greg's death. Nick didn't want to get to know Bruce Jared as a person because he didn't want to empathize with one of the only people who could have saved Greg's life. And didn't.

_They had beaten Greg. Nick heard the cries of pain. The moans. Catherine said something to Ari. Ari said something back. Nick didn't care. All he saw was his boyfriend bleeding on the floor. _

_Nick pressed the handkerchief further into Greg's stab wound and hoped that the blood would clear up. For all the robbers' cruelty, the stab wound wasn't aimed so as to be fatal. It clearly didn't hit any vital organs. Nonetheless, the various kicks and punches doled out with it left their toll on Greg's almost-slack body, and, altogether, it frightened Nick more than anything -- even the coffin -- ever had, reluctant though he was to admit it. _

_Words between Ari and Catherine served as background noise to the constant pounding of Greg's chest, felt by Nick through the hands pushing the handkerchief down as hard as possible. He could feel Greg's heartbeat -- feel his own hands vibrate with Greg's every breath -- and he didn't want it to ever be any different. _

_But the background noise escalated. Ari moved toward Nick and Greg, and the fiery look in his eyes was apparent even behind the mask. Nick hunched over Greg protectively, on instinct. _

_Crude words directed at his prone partner -- courtesy of Richie -- cut through the sound of Greg's heartbeat, joined by the thumping Nick could now hear and feel in his own. _

_Nick paled and would have hunched further over Greg were it possible. _

No_, he thought. _No, they can't do that.

_Fear flashed over Greg's face as well, and Nick wanted it to go away -- to make everything better, and _now_. _

_But Ari turned away. Ari _did_ turn away. Nick held a sigh of relief, ready to blow it out at the first sign that no harm was meant at this particular moment. _

_Indeed, Ari faced Catherine again, Greg seemingly forgotten. Nick let loose a breath and unconsciously rubbed Greg's chest gently, in a near-attempt at comfort. _

_But then Ari was back, all of a sudden, and Nick was, without even realizing it, further away from Greg, and Ari's hands were on Greg's neck. Greg let loose a whimper and Nick stifled his own growl at the light touch that was itself more insidious than a more violent one would have been. It was a stealthy, venomous gentle, and not one that Nick approved, at least when skimming over his boyfriend. Nobody but Nick touched Greg that way. It wasn't allowed, and Nick wouldn't have it. But he could do nothing. _

_The gentle hands, however, quickly turned harsh, and Nick was ashamed of his own relief as the hands clenched around Greg's neck. Fortunately, all touches were retracted as Ari turned, without warning, toward Catherine again. "Take care of this," he snarled. "Make sure we get out of here! Do whatever you need."_

_Nick could see Catherine nod out of the corner of his eye. The next sentence scared him again, though. _

_"Make sure we get out of here, or he" -- Ari pointed at Greg -- "goes down with us." After some consideration, along with a nod from Catherine, Ari added, "And make sure Mr. Jared gets down here also. It's either revenge against Mr. Jared..." He gestured at Greg again. "Or against this one."_

It was then that Catherine pulled out her phone, as well as Nick could remember it. His mind had been occupied by Greg, though. But that phone call -- and that command -- that had been where Catherine had failed. Where they had all failed.

Because of Bruce Jared.

Greg hadn't made it out of the casino, at least not alive, because Bruce Jared hadn't come down to meet with Ari. Catherine had called Warrick to try to convince Mr. Jared, but Nick knew that the fault didn't lie with either of his coworkers. Warrick could be quite persuasive, especially when it came to his team. Warrick was quite possibly the most loyal man Nick had ever had the privilege to call a friend, and his poker skills came in handy in trickier conversations when more was at stake. No, it wasn't Warrick's fault that Greg hadn't made it. Warrick wasn't to blame for Ari's conditions not being met. The responsibility laid on Bruce Jared. Nick didn't care why Ari wanted Mr. Jared to come, although he had some idea after what Ari had said.

Mr. Jared had insisted on getting as many investigators in that casino that night, as soon as possible. There was no way that all of the rooms could have been cleared properly in as short a time as he demanded, and yet the rooms had been effectively cleared. Because Bruce Jared, major Important Person, wanted it done. Because the Tangiers, and the income that it and its owner brought the city and the city's politicians, as well as the cooperation of the owner in various myriad investigations throughout Jared's tenure, were crucial to the city.

Or something like that. Nick didn't care. It had been that demand for speed that had helped cost Greg his life. And when Mr. Jared was offered the opportunity to expedite matters and concede to the demands of the men who held three LVPD employees hostage, Mr. Jared had put his own life first.

That alone made Nick mad, but that Greg's life had been lost as a result... that left him with no sympathy for Bruce Jared. He didn't care if the man looked like a nice old grandpa. If anything, that just meant that Bruce Jared had already had the chance to live his life. But Greg... Greg hadn't. Greg would never get that chance because _this_ man sitting next to Nick valued his own more.

Were Nick of the more violent, less law-abiding sort, he would have strangled Mr. Jared upon first glance, had he not had the agreement with Ari. As it stood, at least he was doing something.

And he wasn't doing anything _that_ bad. Bruce Jared was still getting out of it easy, in Nick's opinion. It was just a meeting, after all. That was all that Ari had wanted in the first place, even if Nick hated the measures that the older man -- that _evil_ man -- had gone through to get that meeting. Now, after that meeting hadn't taken place, Ari had found an alternate means, and Nick was willing to help if that was what it took to get Greg's body back.

And, he had to confess that he was at least a little curious. Sure, Mr. Jared was an important person and maybe Ari had just wanted the highest-profile hostage available. But Nick's gut intuition told him that that wasn't the case -- that there was something more to it.

Still, thoughts of Bruce Jared were welcome. They pushed Nick's own guilt aside. Finally, here was a man -- someone who was supposed to be a _good_ man -- that had let Greg down worse than Nick had. That had betrayed them all worse.

Seeing the world -- and, in that moment, the human contents of the car -- in black-and-white was difficult, but Nick did his best. Vicious though his own actions had once been, he was still an almost-hero to Bruce Jared's villain.

He pushed thoughts of his own misdeeds to the back of his mind. Contrition was there and would linger always. But he could save his apologies for when he found the body. Today was for action, not thought or remembrance, and action was what Nick always did best. Reflection and repentance, not so much.

Still, he wallowed in guilt as he drove. Bruce Jared's presence did little to alleviate the relived memory stuck on repeat in his mind.

* * *

Wendy watched Catherine shake her head in frustration. "This isn't going anywhere. It's not making sense," the older woman moaned.

Warrick bit his lip as he studied Catherine. Wendy could see the concern in his eyes -- quite an unusual show for the man with the infamous poker face, though, in these circumstances, she couldn't quite say whether such a show was in fact unexpected.

Warrick hesitated before running a hand over Catherine's back and leaning down to meet her eyes.

"What do you wanna do?" he asked.

Catherine straightened up immediately, her shoulders thrown back to a posture belying her normal dignified, invulnerable façade.

"Solve it," she said with resolve.

Wendy simply nodded. She was done trying to read between the lines, as intriguing as the ripples radiating between the two older CSIs were.

"What does the evidence tell you?" Warrick asked, clearly addressing both women, as well, perchance, as himself.

Wendy stated the obvious. "That Bruce Jared was there."

Catherine nodded. "But then Manny Di Ricci..."

"Killed Tam with Tam's father looking on," Wendy finished her sentence, without missing a beat. She looked up to see Catherine wince, but Wendy didn't back down. "You guys' theory is probably off."

Warrick hesitated. "And the handkerchief is definitely from the crime scene...?"

"Bruce Jared claimed in his initial statement that he didn't get there until hours after the crime -- past when Tam would have stopped bleeding. The handkerchief was initially found at the scene. The blood on the handkerchief was fresh." Catherine took a deep breath. "I saw it... I saw it there. Over Tam's body. I got there before Bruce Jared -- or at least before he claimed to have gotten to the scene." She took another short breath and looked both colleagues in the eyes. "It means that he had to have been at the scene. And he had to have lied about it. He lied about being there before... That means he has a reason for lying."

She glanced at the experienced better on her left and gave him a wry, disappointed -- but not defeated -- half-grin. "Fifty bucks says Bruce Jared was there when it happened. Fifty bucks says the death is on him."

But it was Wendy who returned eye contact and reached out a hand to counter first. "I'll see your fifty," she said, gaze solid and unwavering. She knew she would lose the bet, but that wasn't the point. She was willing to hold her own, and proud to prove it and to help ease her colleagues' stress. For the first time, she really believed enough in herself enough to reach out and try to alleviate the problems of her superiors, and she could see the gratitude in both of their eyes.

They clenched the deal, and all of the forced optimism it entailed, with a shared grin.

"Well, then," Warrick said, clearing his throat. "Let's prove it."

* * *

Ten minutes later, Catherine and Wendy had carefully removed all of the evidence from the case box and Warrick had dug up all relevant files from the computer.

Laid out on the table before them were the same pieces of evidence Warrick and Catherine had already looked at like what felt like a million times.

But one more time wouldn't hurt -- certainly with a pair of fresh eyes and a new perspective on the case.

"This," Wendy said, picking up the ring with gloved hands. She turned it over to study it.

Catherine waited patiently.

"The inscription..."

"From Tree to Dew," Catherine recited without glancing at the ring. "It's a reference. Song."

Warrick and Wendy looked at her suspiciously.

She sighed. "It means it's from Ari. To Tam," she said quietly.

Wendy nodded in understanding as Wendy remained silent.

"So what does that tell us?" Wendy asked quietly.

"Nothing," Warrick replied. Catherine looked briefly up at him, but was met with only a shrug. She nodded slowly and moved on to the next item.

"Ari's gun."

"Used?" Wendy asked.

"To deliver the second shot to Tam," Warrick replied. "But the fingerprints on the trigger indicate that Ari didn't actually shoot it on his own, and the corrected autopsy shows that the shot from this gun was delivered post-mortem. Tam was already dead when whoever -- likely Manny Di Ricci -- shot Tam with this gun."

"Manny shot Ari's gun after the fact to frame Ari," Catherine interjected.

"Makes sense," Wendy replied. "So what are we trying to figure out then? Sounds like you already know what happened."

Warrick remained silent, staring intently at Catherine as he waited for an answer.

"It just doesn't add up," Catherine replied. "We know that Bruce Jared was there, that Manny Di Ricci was there and that Ari Marvin was there."

"So?" Wendy asked.

"So Bruce Jared wouldn't just let his second-in-command kill his son and not do anything about it. He certainly wouldn't try to frame his son's boyfriend, as much as he didn't like Ari. He would want Di Ricci to pay for killing Tam. What he wouldn't want is for Di Ricci to get away with it, and he certainly wouldn't frame someone else to keep Di Ricci out of trouble."

"So... what are you saying?" Wendy asked.

Catherine thought about it for a moment. "I don't know," she said with a despondent sigh. "I just don't know."

"Wait..." Wendy said after a moment. "Can I see that jacket."

"Jacket?" Catherine hesitated for a moment before remembering the bloody jacket that effectively placed Ari Marvin at the scene.

Wendy studied it for a moment. "This is a lot of blood."

Catherine nodded.

"Where does the original report have Ari standing in relation to Tam?"

"Close by," Catherine responded.

Wendy bit her lip before glancing up and around the room. "Do we have one of those dummies handy?"

"Dummies?" Warrick asked.

"You know -- the plastic ones. Or whatever it is they're made of."

Warrick smirked. "I thought being a lab tech, and a friend of Hodges, you would know what they're made of."

Wendy rolled her eyes and ignored the statement. "Do you know where one is?"

Catherine moved toward a closet before opening it. Wendy was surprised to see two of the dummies in question roll out. Warrick raised an eyebrow.

"Grissom always keeps them hidden here," Catherine replied to their querulous glances. "Just in case."

Warrick snorted. "So typical."

As Catherine dragged the dummies out, Wendy moved toward the DNA lab to collect a silenced gun. It was filled with paintball pellets to ensure minimal injuries at the Lab.

Warrick looked questioningly at her.

"Warrick," Wendy began. "Can you go stand with the first dummy on the other side of the room -- about 25 feet from where I'm standing?"

Warrick complied.

"And Catherine -- can you go grab a paintball gun from Ballistics and then come stand over here with it?"

Catherine looked suspicious but complied as well, returning promptly with a paintball gun. Wendy took the other dummy from the older woman and moved toward Warrick with it.

"Wendy, what's going on?" Catherine asked.

Wendy bit her lip again. "I've got a theory."

Catherine nodded slowly, but continued to cooperate. Wendy took it as quite a sign of good will and trust that the older CSIs were going along with her experiment.

"Catherine," Wendy instructed. "You're going to fire the gun when I say 'go'. Got it?"

Catherine nodded.

Wendy turned toward Warrick. "And Warrick, you're going to hold your dummy facing the gun." She looked up at Catherine. "Aim for Warrick's dummy."

Catherine looked slightly startled, and Warrick's poker face almost dropped to reveal a peeved expression.

"Trust me on this."

"So I'm gonna be Tam?" Warrick asked suspiciously.

"No," Wendy replied. "I am."

As the paintball pellet left the gun chamber, Wendy threw her dummy in front of Warrick's.

Bloodspray patterns were immediately visible, this time in the form of pink paintball paint. She held up the dummy, and Warrick and Catherine took seconds to register what the pattern of paint on the dummy meant -- and why Tam's blood had splattered in just such a way over Ari's jacket in the first place.

"Manny Di Ricci didn't mean to kill Tam," Warrick finally spoke. "He meant to kill Ari."

Catherine nodded slowly. "Tam took the bullet for him," she whispered -- barely loud enough for the other two to hear her. "Tam jumped in front of the bullet. That's why the blood splatter is at that angle. That's why the paint spray on Warrick's dummy matches the bloodspray on Ari's jacket. The bullet was meant for him -- for Ari."

Wendy stared at her colleagues -- especially Catherine. She couldn't tell if the other woman was suppressing tears of joy, relief or anger. Catherine Willows kept a sufficient poker face herself.

**

* * *

  
**

"I thought you were a man of the law," Mr. Jared ventured. Nick turned his head partway to glimpse at the older man sharing his truck.

"I am."

"And this?"

Nick shrugged. "It's no more legal than demanding that the sheriff send in police and investigators ASAP -- even before the scene could be properly cleared."

Mr. Jared sighed. "Tou ché." He paused briefly. "Although it would have taken forever to clear the scene. The casino is huge, and I wouldn't want police searching through everything there -- not all of the back rooms."

Nick nodded. He had given into acquiescence long ago. No emotions flickered over his face. The only thing that mattered was getting Greg's body back. Mr. Jared could engage him in whichever conversation the older man so chose, so long as Nick kept driving.

Or so Nick told himself.

In reality, he couldn't afford to turn his emotions back on as his passenger talked of justification for the breach in procedure that had cost his -- well, whatever Greg had been to him -- life.

"You know," Mr. Jared started again. "Bringing me to this meeting is a heckuva lot different than me asking for the scene cleared. You're making yourself an accomplice to murder."

Nick started, but only slightly, still keeping his grip firm on the wheel and not conceding any fear to the man. "It's not murder. Just a meeting."

"Your really think so?"

"Yeah. I do." Nick paused. "Not trying to get out of this meeting, are you?"

"No." Mr. Jared shook his head and, for the first time, Nick could hear the acquiescence in the older man's voice and see it in his sluggish movement.

"You're not afraid?" Nick asked, more curious now.

"Honestly," Mr. Jared began with a yawn. "I lost the right to be afraid of whatever Ari Marvin would like to do to me long ago."

Nick crinkled his brow and shot Mr. Jared a quizzical glance.

Mr. Jared sighed again before leaning his head against the car window. "No matter what I try to tell myself, or what I tried to tell myself at first, I _was _responsible for a murder." He paused, turning his head fully to stare at the window into the rambling desert expanse. "Now _two_ murders."

Nick bit his lip and nodded. "Well the police seem to think that you and Sam Braun were responsible for a lot more than that."

Mr. Jared chuckled, and it was, somewhat to Nick's surprise, truly the laugh of a worn-out gangster -- the worn-out gangster that he was. Mr. Jared, Nick reflected silently, was the kind of man Greg would have loved to meet and research. "I took care of what needed to be taken care of," he said ambiguously.

"Greg didn't need to be taken care of," Nick replied before he realized what he'd said. He had, in all honesty, been trying to limit his bitterness. Sublimize. That's what he wanted to do. Dissociation hadn't worked -- or rather it had for the first month after Greg's death, but he couldn't live his life by escaping what had happened, by pretending that Greg was still going to come home, or that Greg hadn't mattered to him. He was doing his best to leave his denial behind without becoming too much of a cynic. He deserved the grief, but Greg wouldn't have wanted him to work himself to death.

And, perhaps more than that, he owed his team better.

He had barely paid attention to the rest of his team -- his _family_, really -- since the incident, but in the last week or so he had come to see -- really _see_ -- how it had affected his teammates as well. They didn't need another death on their hands. They needed another teammate, but they also needed something more.

If it were simply another person to work shifts, he could have run away into the sunset long ago.

But they didn't just need him to help clear the workload, or at least try to, since they'd never really been able to do that in the first place. They needed their friend, their brother. Death was painful, but, as Nick had always known, especially after every time he had to break the news to family members, grief was worse. He knew that he had withdrawn into himself in the last few months, but he wasn't selfish -- he would _try_ not to be selfish. He wouldn't abandon Vegas, despite the painful memories still lurking there.

Mr. Jared interrupted his train of thought as it closed. The man had a knack for timing. Nick had to give him that.

"I'm sorry about Mr. Sanders. I really am."

Nick nodded slowly. It was too late, and he was too old for grudges. In the name of trying to forgive, he dug words from his heart. "I appreciate it." The six syllables came out forced -- painfully. Every instinct didn't want to let the words escape into the air -- into existence -- but Nicked knew it was the right thing. And with that came peace. Tears he hadn't quite expected pushed into his eyes, and, for the first time in so long, they were tears of relief rather than pain and grief. At least _something _felt good about this.

"Y-you two were close?" Mr. Jared's voice was calming, and Nick could see one of the reasons that the man had made it so far in such a cutthroat business. Perhaps he had been given plenty of signs of Mr. Jared's talents before, but he had neglected to notice them. To pay attention to the fact that the man he was basically blackmailing was, at the bottom of it all, still a man, and still a complex human being, would have only made his job harder.

"Yeah," Nick replied, blinking back tears again. "We were close." He hesitated before letting the truth slide out. This time he didn't need to force it out. He could just let it go.

_Acceptance_.

"He was my boyfriend."

Mr. Jared hesitated for a moment -- and Nick himself felt the instant downpour of a swirling torrent of regrets -- before replying with a nod, one that looked like it could be accepting too. Then again, what right, Nick thought, did Mr. Jared have to judge him?

Mr. Jared's next words were not the ones Nick had been expecting. "My son had a boyfriend too."

Nick cleared his throat. "Son... _had...?" _ He tried to make sense of it, but Mr. Jared quickly took care of it.

"He was murdered."

Nick nodded, and felt a common bond with the man. Grief was unique in its exquisite, longing pain. Grief for someone snatched away too young -- that was even worse. Judging by Mr. Jared's age, certainly not much older than Nick's own parents, his son had been young too. Too young to die at least. After the casino, Nick never would have expected to be sharing his sympathies with Bruce Jared, but the words rolled out of his mouth nonetheless: "I'm sorry for your loss."

Mr. Jared laughed, but it was a sober, eerily quiet laugh. Mr. Jared opened his mouth, but closed it slowly and said no more. Instead, he faced the window, staring off into the distance, and shook his head at some thought Nick would never know, almost as if to some invisible ghost with whom the man had been conversing. Nick could tell in that moment that perhaps Mr. Jared had never gotten over the death, and Nick could see all the more acutely what happened when one didn't learn to deal with the pain.

Perhaps that was why Mr. Jared had come so easily with Nick. He had protested Nick's method of coercion at first. Being a man of such power, he was, no doubt, accustomed to threats of blackmail and used to dealing with them accordingly. Once he knew everything -- particularly the significant extent of Ari's involvement in the matter -- however, he had given in. If only he had done so that night months ago, when it would have mattered more.

_Acquiescence. _It was etched across every movement -- every turn, sideways glance; every time the man slowly pivoted his head to almost speak, but ended up sighing wistfully to himself and whichever ghost shared their car. It was written across his brow and melancholy stare, and Nick could see the way it had eaten the man up. Nick couldn't help wondering now if perhaps losing a child was even worse than losing a lover. Every instinct told him that it had to be.

He looked at Bruce Jared again and, this time, didn't see so much the man that had refused to come help Greg -- though that angle would, Nick supposed, always find its place in his mind. But this time he saw also, perhaps more so, a sad old man cackling softly and bitterly at the gentle whispers of a vengeful ghost still lingering in his mind.

Nick almost felt guilty for taking Mr. Jared to see Ari. _Almost. _

But then Mr. Jared spoke. "It's my fault he died."

"He...? You mean Greg, or --"

Another soft yet bitter chuckle. "Both of them. All of them."

Nick nodded, more in conciliation and support than in understanding.

Bruce Jared's voice broke as he spoke. "It's my fault -- m-my fault -- that Tam's dead." He paused, staring at the window and hastily wiping tears away; it was the only action he'd done hastily the entire trip, at least that Nick had noticed, and Nick was a trained observer. "It's my fault your boyfriend's dead also."

"Don't say that," Nick responded reflexively, unable to stop himself from at least trying to comfort the older man. He reached out a hand to pat Mr. Jared's shoulder.

The contact shattered the empathetic connection between the two men, and Mr. Jared shrugged and turned away to face the window once more.

* * *

Thanks for reading! Hope you guys enjoyed the extra-long chapter. Please review ;) I'd especially love feedback on how the investigation is working so far (whether it's too confusing or has just the right amount of confusion and whether it's too boring), if the pacing of the chapter feels right and/or if the chapter felt too wordy. Regardless, any review is a good review. Sorry again for not getting this chapter up earlier.

~Harper


	32. Esto

Big apologies for the delay, and much thanks to liljanie for reminding me why this story means so much to me and to PraetorCorvinus for, generally, being awesome and keeping me loyal to this fandom and, specifically, for providing a shitload of valuable advice and interesting analysis on this chapter. Big thanks as well to everyone who has retained hope for this story and stuck with it, even after the ridiculous delays. I have not sent this chapter to LaughableBlackStorm for beta, which is entirely (obviously) my own darn fault. All mistakes are especially my fault here. Anyway, this is _the_ chapter. I pretty much wrote the entire story to get to this chapter. As such, title translates (hopefully correctly) to 'it'. This chapter is also double the usual length. Enjoy :)

**CHAPTER 32: LO ESTO**

"We're leaving now?" Wendy asked, slightly stunned. "Do you even know where to go?"

Catherine glanced at Warrick. Neither seemed to have an answer, which sealed the deal for Wendy.

"There's something more to this. I know there is."

"We've solved the case," Catherine replied quietly.

"Yeah, the one from 1985," Wendy said sharply. "Nick and I were working on the casino heist. It's not the same case."

"But now we know Ari's motives --"

"It's still not the same."

Warrick rolled his eyes. "Wendy, we get that you wanna solve the case. It's important to you and you've worked hard at it. But right now the living take priority over the dead. We've gotta find Nick."

"And how do you propose we _do_ that?" Wendy could feel the frustration building. They'd already been over this. They didn't know where to look.

"Where do you think he _might_ be then?" Catherine began.

"What else happened in Juárez?" Warrick interrupted before Wendy could respond.

Wendy gulped. "You wanna know everything." It was half-question, half-statement.

Catherine gave a brusk nod.

"We went to Ciudad Juárez. It's in Mexico," she began.

"We already know that."

She nodded. "We found the three spots of blood spatter."

"We already know that," Catherine repeated.

"No we don't," Warrick responded quickly. "We know about _two _spots of blood splatter -- Richie Hedd and Jane Doe."

"Jane Doe #89," Wendy acknowledged. She could see Warrick's poker face resurrected on his features, perversely paralleled by the horrified acquiescence on Catherine's.

_They think the third one is Greg's,_ she realized.

"The third one matched a Sandra Ortega."

She could hear Catherine's sigh of relief.

"Who's she?" Warrick asked.

Wendy didn't need to pull out her file to remember. The cumulative case had been running short-circuit through her head on repeat for at least the past 48 hours. Even in her sleep, she could see the screaming corpse of Jane Doe #89 morphing into a bloody Richie Hedd dragging himself, panting and wheezing, across the maquiladora floor. But, in her daydreams and nightmares, Sandra Ortega's face was something else entirely -- permanently stuck between a questioning smile, hurried repose and the confident expression of a predator. She was nothing like the blood and semen stains left at her crime scene.

More than anything, she was a fluttering of wavy black hair.

"She's a woman -- probably twenty to thirty years old. No body was found. Blood matched her and semen found at the scene matched a Cristian Portillo with the Ciudad Juárez PD."

Catherine's brow crinkled. "But how'd you know it was Sandra Ortega without her body? How'd you even know who she was?"

"She's in the system. _Our_ system. Detained and deported for trying to cross the border 15 miles south of El Paso." Wendy didn't need to pull up the mugshot. She could still see it clearly enough in her own mind.

"So why is Sandra Ortega important?" Warrick asked.

Wendy took a deep breath. "She was found near the handkerchief. The one that was there when Tam died. Greg's fingerprint was found on that same handkerchief."

Catherine and Warrick's faces returned to the calm, horrified repose of earlier.

"When was she killed?" Warrick asked, his mask breaking first.

"They don't know for certain, but the blood and semen stains are older than the ones from Richie Hedd and Jane Doe."

Warrick blinked. "So she could have been there before. Before Greg. Before everything." The unspoken words were obvious -- _before this case_.

Sandra Ortega, the two older CSIs knew, was not relevant. But Wendy just couldn't let her go.

"What else happened there?" Warrick asked. "Did you talk to anyone? Find any other evidence?"

Wendy gulped. "Yes." She paused. "We talked to a few people. At least two of the robbers."

Catherine's eyes widened. "Which ones?"

"Well, I don't know for sure -- _we_ didn't know for sure, but --"

"Can you give a physical description of them?" Catherine asked.

"Well," Wendy said, taking a deep breath and trying to recall. The first robber didn't stick in her head in the same way as the second. "The first time we went there, Nick and I saw one."

_"Good find." Nick and Wendy both jumped at the unfamiliar voice._

_"It's not loaded. Just in case you were wondering," the voice said, chuckling cruelly as Wendy clutched the newly found snub-nosed revolver in her hand. _

_"Who -- what --" Wendy stuttered out._

_"Wh-Who are you?" Nick asked. He seemed barely more confident than Wendy, and she would've expected better. _

_The man's hand shot up, and, out of the corner of her eye, Wendy could make out Nick -- trying to reach for something (maybe a gun?) -- as the impetus for the man's sudden movement. The man's own gun pointed at both CSIs. _

_Wendy could now make up out a silhouette of the man -- he was taller and thinner than Wendy and Nick, even under a long coat. Wendy guessed him to be about 6'2", but she couldn't tell with certainty. _

_Not-quite-niceties were exchanged as Nick and the man traded combative words. The man emerged victorious. _

_She had had no other name for the man -- nothing else to refer to him as. When Nick had asked who he was, the sole, enigmatic reply was "someone you've met before". _

_Surely it made sense for the man not to give away his identity though --_

xx

"6'2"?" Catherine interrupted Wendy's recitation. "That sounds like Julian's height."

Wendy shrugged. "Could be."

"What else did he say?"

xx

_"Don't think about it."_

_Nick relented, and dropped his hand._

_"Who are you?" he repeated._

_"Someone you've met before," the man replied. _

_His response was smooth, but aggravation was still visible. Wendy had let herself look closely enough to see it._

_"You're one of the robbers," Nick said calmly._

_"Good guess."_

_"Then it's a _correct_ guess?"_

_The man laughed. "You think I'm going to give anything away _that_ easily?"_

_Wendy could sense Nick gritting his teeth in frustration._

_"What do you want?"_

_"What do _you_ want?"_

_Nick growled. "Answer my question."_

_The man chuckled dryly. "You think this is a school game?"_

_"Huh?"_

_"Where I _have_ to answer because you asked first?"_

_Nick glared. "I _did_ ask first."_

_"You sound like a petulant child."_

_Nick's nostrils had flared in anger. He, so unlike Warrick, was no expert at concealing his anger._

_"What do you want?"_

_"Again, this isn't a game, nor is it school, nor is it supposed to be fair." The man held up his gun. "It doesn't matter who asked first. What matters is that I'm the one holding the gun. So let _me_ repeat: Why are you here?"_

_"To find Greg's body."_

_The man sighed. "Ari thought you would be doing that. Apparently, I'll be the one losing that bet."_

_Wendy couldn't help wondering what had led Ari to that conclusion -- why Nick of all people would be expected to return, even under such circumstances, for Greg's corpse._

_"Why would Ari think that?"_

_The man shook his head contemplatively, almost dismissively. "I _still_ don't understand. He had someone special in his life. And _he_ would go to all lengths for _them_. But I don't see why he expected the same of _you_. _Greggo_" -- he said Greg's name with a sneer -- "didn't seem too important to you."_

_"Wha-- Where did you get that?!" Nick stuttered._

_"From talking to him," the man replied nonchalantly._

_"Talking? -- What? When would you --?"_

_"You really didn't connect the dots, did you?"_

_"What do you mean?" _

_Nick's anger was palpable, not dripping but pouring down -- frightening Wendy. Everything in that moment frightened her, but she, unlike Nick, kept it to herself. She didn't understand how she stayed so calm. Perhaps, she thought later, it was curiosity._

_"Didn't realize how gullible you were."_

_"WHAT DO YOU MEAN?"_

_"That bullet didn't kill Greg."_

_"Wha- what? You mean he's still alive?" _

_Wendy could hear the hope in his voice, as it blossomed but also as it fluttered weakly._

_The man laughed. "No. He's dead alright. Just not the way _you_ think. Ari realized that, if we were going to dispose of the body elsewhere, and we had to carry it with us as a result, we might as well not kill him outside the casino."_

_"Wait -- so --" _

_Hope had fluttered to die in two words. Wendy heard it drop listlessly to the ground, desiccated and sterile._

_"We got what we needed from him. He kept us company for the ride down here. And then he ran out of blood."_

_"How -- how could you do that? He -- he-- he was so sweet. Why -- how --"_

_"What makes you think you even know _what_ we did? For all _you_ know, he could have been playing _checkers_ with us. I for one always enjoy a good game. Apparently, as _Greggo_ told me, he has a knack for chess, which I too enjoy."_

_"What did you do to him? -- Please."_

_"Do you _really_ love him?"_

_"Yes. Please, just let me get him closure. Let me bring him back, so we can have his funeral."_

_"What would you do to get the body back?"_

_"Anything."_

_The man scoffed. "I never understand you people. _Lovesick puppies_." He shook his head as he chuckled. "He wasn't worth that much."_

_"He was to me."_

_"Fine. You're all pathetic."_

_"_Greg_ wasn't pathetic."_

_The man laughed, and this time it was a sinister laugh._

_The man took advantage of the situation, to ask the one last question -- the one that broke the tides of tears. "You wanna know what his last words were, huh, _Nicky_?"_

_"What?"_

_"That's what it was."_

_Nick looked up, confused._

_"Nicky. That was his last word."_

_Nick paused in the most frightening way. _

_"I couldn't tell if it was because, perhaps, he was enjoying himself, but I think we were past that. We realized, I think, that he" -- the man interrupted himself to laugh again -- "that he still thought you could come and save him." The man spoke as if it was the most ludicrous idea he'd ever heard. "He screamed your name like he thought you could protect him."_

_Then Nick had finished breaking._

_Wendy had known it was her job to pick up the pieces, just as it had been her job all along, before she even knew it._

_Between the man's hostility and Nick's shattered psyche, she was the calm, the soothing and the salvation. Resurrecting hope._

_Salvarse_.

_A single word of a long-forgotten native language returned to her._

_To save. It was her job._

_"Please," she said, her voice resolute, though there was a clear edge of tears and desperation. "Please tell us where his body is. How we can find it."_

_The man laughed again. "I like this girl. Smart cookie, huh? Getting right to the point._

_"If you want to find him, then come back here tomorrow morning at three, before sunrise. Ari will tell you what you need to do to get the body."_

_Wendy nodded, holding back tears. _

_A package swooped through the air, along with less swooping instructions._

_"Drop it off." _

Wendy paused.

"A package?"

Wendy nodded, unaware of who'd spoken the words. Her eyes shot back to weeks ago -- to dropping that package off at the post office; to stamping it and calculating the cost.

The cost of shipping from Ciudad Juárez to one Bruce Jared.

She hadn't noticed it then.

She did now.

_The man stepped out into the night air and vanished as quickly as he'd come, leaving yet another broken man in his wake._

Sharp words from Catherine broke her daze.

"You think that was Julian? Or Ari?"

"You're the one who met them," Warrick replied, matter-of-fact. "We know it wasn't Richie or Biggs though. It had to have been one of those two."

Wendy simply nodded. She was still too lost in words, as her mind flashed forward to the next encounters. As haunting as the Tall Man's words were, his were not the eeriest.

"There's something else, isn't there?" Warrick wisely guessed.

Wendy nodded, and Catherine's head tilted forward, anticipating the second surge of resurrected memories.

"You went to go meet Ari, didn't you?" Catherine asked, though not hostilely.

Wendy nodded. "Or at least _I_ did."

Warrick looked puzzled. "Nick didn't want to meet with him? After all that?"

Wendy paused mid-shake of the head. "He wanted to meet with him -- _Nick_ wanted to meet with _Ari_. But I don't know..." She paused, thinking through what had happened that night, the one after their first robber encounter. "We split up," she finally said.

Catherine tilted her head in confusion. "And? Does that mean that only one of you met with him?"

"I think so."

"You think so or you know so?"

"I think so."

By now, both CSIs were staring at her in confusion.

"You don't know who you met with?" Warrick ventured.

"I think I met with Ari. But I'm not sure."

"Why wouldn't you be sure?" Catherine asked. "I mean, he was in the same place. The place Julian said you were to meet him. And I'm assuming he matched the physical description of Ari?"

Wendy nodded. "He was about the right height. Maybe an inch or two taller than me, probably somewhere between 5'10" and 6 feet tall. Relatively slim. Still shorter than the robber from the night before, and not quite as rail-thin, but still thin." She thought back more, but struggled to come up with anything useful, despite the man's lingering presence in her mind. His rough, rasping voice had boomed through her mind every night -- much the same way as the curves of Sandra Ortega's black hair -- since that night.

"What was he wearing?" Warrick asked helpfully.

An image seared through her mind, along with Lenora's kind words. She didn't even quite know why Lenora's words insinuated themselves so easily between the garbled voice and the wavy hair.

Lenora. _"My loss gives me reason. It gives me purpose."_

Purpose. Purpose. Focus. Purpose. Concentrate. But the voices were too loud. Were they cheering or hastling?

_"F-freeze. LVPD."_

_"Nice try Wendy."_ _His voice was garbled. So garbled. She had thought he was Ari, but now she wasn't so sure. Garbled Voice -- that was the only accurate, dependable identifier._

_A flower blossomed in her mind. White flower petals. Or were they wings? Their delicate form spun around in circles until she realized it was cotton after all. The picture expanded, and she recognized it as faded black leather intruded behind it. Expanding to show that shadow. _

_His face was still hidden by the shadows. Only the flower showed. Just like it had that night. _

_She was in the maquiladora, searching -- again. Shining her flashlight when she heard the noise. And there he was -- again. _

_He was slim, but slightly taller than Wendy -- probably 5'10" or 5'11". He wore a worn-looking black leather jacket with a faded logo -- it looked like either white flower petals or wings -- over the right-breast pocket. His mask covered all but his eyes and the thin line of his mouth._

_"F-freeze. LVPD."_

_"Nice try Wendy." _

_Ari. _

_Ari, with the horrid rasping voice. _

(Wasn't it?)

_And then a co-conspirator. Colleague. Whatever she was -- the woman that brushed up against him and never said a word. _

_"A-Ari. You're Ari," Wendy said. "The other man -- the other robber said you'd help us find the body."_

_"Us?"_

_She nodded._

_"What constitutes this 'us'?"_

_"M-me and Nick."_

_Garbled Voice nodded. A feminine form brushed up against him and whispered in his ear. He whispered back and the woman stilled. Wendy could see the black wavy hair protruding from the woman's mask. Both wore dark, baggy clothes, along with gloves that almost looked like latex._

_Again. _

_Latex. Wavy black hair. _

_Haphazard thoughts. Repeat. Fast-forward. Skip. Replay. Shuffle. _

_"Y-yes. Yes. I want to know how he died."_

_"Oh now, I was hoping you'd ask. He died slowwly" -- the man dragged out the word -- "and painfully._

_"But really, it was a simple death. He bled." He paused again, and again as if thinking hard. "Oh yes, and then he bled some more. And then," -- the man relayed his words as if he were telling a story and coming to an exciting edge-of-your-seat climax --"Then he just stopped bleeding."_

_Wendy gulped._

_"What did you do to him?"_

_The man's laugh was starting to wear on Wendy's nerves. Every additional malicious chuckle struck at her carefully rewound sanity._

_Garbled Voice waved a hand as if dismissing something jokingly. "Now don't you worry about that, hon. Let's just say we had fun."_

_"Y-you bastard! How --"_

_"Careful now," he interrupted in an almost singsong voice, also interrupting Wendy's charge forward mid-step. _

_He gestured toward the woman, who was looking more and more uncomfortable by the minute. The woman's finger trembled on the trigger. "Nicola has a gun too," he said._

_Nicola. Who was Nicola? Latex gloves. Wavy black hair. _

_And Ari -- Ari? -- Garbled Voice. _That_ man. Husky, garbled voice. Black faded leather jacket. That flower -- angel wings -- whatever it was. _

_Another voice struck through her mind as it tossed and turned. _

_That stubborn voice. _

_"Come on, Wendy. Don't let this case go. Prove yourself."_

_It had a familiar nasally quality to it. A familiar friendly tone. _That_ voice. It was all his fault. All Greg's fault. All Greg's fault for leaving them all. _

_For dying on the team. _

_For sticking her with this impossible situation. _

_"Come on, Wendy. You can do it."_

_'No, I can't!' her mind replied, trying to silence the voices. 'Leave me alone!' _

_But the voices persisted. _

_'Not until you solve it.'_

_'How? How?! How can I solve this?!' _

_'Well, first of all, you might wanna calm down.'_

_'You're in my imagination. Stop nagging me. I wanna sleep.' _

_'In your imagination, eh? Maybe that's _where _I am, but I guarantee you that that's not _what _I am.'_

_'What are you, then?' _

_'Everything you can't get _out _of your head. Everything you've _never_ been able to get out of your head.' _

_Memories again resurrected themselves within Wendy's mind. Every other time this had happened. Every other restless night when she was left with voices rattling on in her mind, reminding her of things she just couldn't let _go_ of. And, this time, she wanted to let go _so much_. _

_'But you can't.'_

_She knew it was true. She couldn't. Cursed with a conscience -- too stubborn, too anxiety-ridden, too damned moralizingly righteous. _

_It was the right thing to do, and she couldn't let go of it, no matter how much she wanted to. _

_'How do I solve it, then?' she asked the voice. 'You sound like Greg. Maybe you know. You -- you _promised_ you'd help me. The same way you helped me with DNA. The same way you helped me with _everything_ at this Lab. You were _proud_ that I was following in your footsteps. You said you'd help me learn how to solve crimes. That you'd teach me to follow in your footsteps as a CSI too. Help me now, Greg.' _

_'Fine. Happily.'_

_A part of her chuckled. 'You _are_ Greg. Just like him. Helping happily. Happily helpful. So...' _

_'Nice?'_

_'Yeah. That.' _

_The voice didn't reply._

_'I don't know where to start.' _

_'Well, then, what do you know?'_

_'I know that Ari was in that maquiladora. I know there was a woman -- Nicola -- with him.' _

_'Hold that thought.'_

_She did. _

_'Do you even know what you're _trying_ to solve? What you're _trying_ to do?'_

_She sobbed, though it didn't feel or sound like crying. "No." _

"Wendy?"

She was interrupted from her dazed conversation by a hand on her shoulder.

"You alright? You look like you got distracted for a second."

She nodded wordlessly.

"I know where he is," she said, voice strained. "I know it all. We have to go to Juárez. The maquiladora. That's where he is. It all makes sense now."

Both older CSIs looked at her questioningly.

"Sandra Ortega explained it all."

That was all she said.

She stood up and headed out the door, almost crashing into a startled Sara Sidle, whose hands were full of something or other.

* * *

Nick stood in the familiar factory. The space was hollow. Air drifted lazily through it, striking with a gust of more force than Nick would have preferred. There was too little else for it to strike. The space was too empty -- too much like Nick. But, like him, it was soon to be filled.

Nick pushed aside his conversations with Bruce Jared. The man was one thing -- Nick's ticket to salvation, or the closest thing available. Survival and passage into the next bout of sanity abided in the man next to him, and he gritted his teeth to try to stay focused on the task at hand, not that it was a task truly compelling great levels of thought or concentration.

But still.

He needed to believe. To stay sturdy and strong. Resolute and ready. Prepared for anything -- _anything_ -- that could come to take his one opportunity away.

The sound of a familiar door echoed through the space, and, though the air gained new, more expansive residence, the building itself felt at least a little less empty.

And so did Nick.

"Ari," he acknowledged, cordially almost.

The older man nodded with a wistful smile. Titles and niceties of greeting would have provided a charade, yet in this case the affable, almost empathetic and congenial civility felt... real.

As if he really would have ventured down to Juárez to meet Ari Marvin for an afternoon guzzling beer and watching football.

It was an eerie connection, even more so than the car ride down with Bruce Jared had produced.

Bruce Jared had looked over at Nick as if he understood. As if he could feel Nick's pain. Perhaps he could, having lot a child -- someone so dear. And, from their conversation, it seemed he could understand the guilt even more sharply.

But in Ari's eyes, guilt and pain and a rampage of other assorted emotions sorted themselves differently -- different quantities and combinations. He understood, but he didn't.

But he did.

He did.

Nick just knew it.

If Ari could understand, maybe he would try and help. Maybe he would try and be nice. Nice to all of them. Nicer than he had been to Greg.

Ari's mask was off, and Nick could see, for the first time since their previous and sparsely lit maquiladora meeting, the age on the man's face. He was a handsome man. The girls back home, in some day and age, might even have swooned. Dark hair now graying was cropped neatly over a heart-shaped face. Pale blue eyes hid underneath, wide but weary. No aquatic metaphors applied. The eyes spoke volumes for the man; he was weary too.

Yet what closure he sought remained unknown to Nick. How Bruce Jared's death -- or whatever it was that was going to happen -- would alleviate the fatigue for life pulsing slowly through tired eyes was inscrutable to Nick.

No matter what Ari Marvin did, it was all for naught. Nick knew Ari had already lost -- what it was he'd lost, Nick didn't know, but he still knew it was gone.

Either Ari recognized the futility of the entire affair, or he still harbored hope for something. No resurrection possible, so perhaps atonement. Nick didn't know.

But it scared him how much of himself he saw in the man.

Ari was like a younger version of his own father, but more tattered and molded by life -- by _something_.

"I've got what you want," Nick said, voice low. "I brought him like you asked."

He pushed the older man forward.

Bruce Jared toppled halfway before wobbling sideways.

Nick gulped, guilt pouring up to fill him halfway over.

It took only one half-frightened glance backward from Bruce Jared to make him reconsider his actions.

_Rash. Crazy. Why am I doing this? Poor old man._

"W-wait," Nick said, voice wavering for the fifth time in this maquiladora, though only the first for this particular encounter. He couldn't blame it on the climate.

It was all his fault.

All his fault for landing everybody in this situation.

For hurting Greg.

For letting Greg die.

For Richie shooting Catherine that night when everything went wrong, because Nick stayed back, complacent, processing the first scene even though Catherine clearly needed the protection more, and she had a kid, and he _shouldn't_ have just let her go process that room by herself, but she wasn't alone because, after all, there was _Greg_, and _he_ was going to be there to _help_, and --

Nick sucked in a breath of air reluctant to leave untenably empty yet fast-filling space. The building shrunk and expanded, dilated and withdrew too fast for Nick to keep up with it.

The world around him did the same.

"Why did you come here?" It was Ari who spoke, and his voice was again understanding. Not a tone Nick ever would have expected from _this_ man. This _man_ who'd hurt Greg. Without mercy.

"What do you mean?" Nick replied angrily.

"You're better than this," Ari replied simply. "Better than kidnapping an old man." Yet Ari waved his hand around as if to mean something more. As if Nick was better than so much more -- than Ari, Mr. Jared and the filth and dried blood covering the floor.

"No, I'm not."

Ari shrugged. "Well, I guess that's for you to decide."

"Damn right it is," Nick snarled back.

Ari seemed thoughtfully caught between a laugh at Nick's tempestuous show of emotion and plain regret over whichever something else seemed to afflict the robber.

Mr. Jared moved forward. It seemed the oldest man had spent a lifetime fearing this encounter, but now it couldn't come soon enough. It was terrified anticipation that pickled the man where he stood. He was too restless not to venture a step, even one in Ari's direction. A once-powerful man -- lord of the casinos, of, for a brief time, Vegas herself -- reduced to a listless, restless quiver of jiggling fat, bones and sinews. Anxious beyond belief, waiting for his last to toll. Not even the chance for the nominal last meal. But Bruce Jared, despite the underlying anxiety, didn't seem to care.

His soul was gone, and perhaps it had vanished long ago, but Nick couldn't hide his empathy. For all the man was, he couldn't _not_ pity Mr. Jared. In an equation of alibis and evidence, revenge was simple, clear-cut and a logical conclusion.

Here, there was more.

Wrinkled skin reminding Nick of his own roots; his own parents and uncles and grandparents and even his oldest siblings. Whites of eyes marbleized by tears. A real tremor of warm, not-so-empty air puffing out in bursts from parched lips. Streaks of darkness where wisps of veins made themselves visible under thin, antique skin vulnerable to the world, no doubt victim to sun, rain, dirt and grime, pain, ailment and all else over decades.

A living, breathing person, despite whichever actions he'd been accused of.

For all the guilt Nick heaped upon himself, for all the viciousness of his choices with Greg -- that he _knew _he _deserved _the guilt for -- for how inhuman and brutal those choices had made him, Nick couldn't turn off his humanity. He settled with staring. Staring in sympathy at the old man in front of him. He -- _Nick_ -- had lost already. What was the use in preserving a humanity as tattered as his own?

He continued to stare, not even meeting Ari's gaze as he spoke.

"Where's the body?"

"I have it," Ari replied.

Nick nodded.

"Let me get it over with," Bruce Jared rasped. Nick appreciated the dignity that the deep, commanding voice acquired over time lent the man in his final, otherwise feeble words.

Ari tilted his head for a moment.

"No," he said quietly, but sharply enough. "The body first."

The oddity of the choice wasn't lost on Nick. Normally, in hostage situations -- or, really, any situations where exchange took place between hostile parties -- the person in control took before giving. Saw the goods demanded, grasped hold of them and then evaluated whether to accede their side of the bargain. Nick had seen it happen far too often in hostage situations. Any sane, intelligent criminal would adhere to such an intuitive rule, and Nick knew that Ari was nothing less than astute and calculating.

Yet he gave before he took.

"You stay," Ari ordered, voice surprisingly high-pitched and melodic, and gestured to Bruce Jared.

The older man managed a feeble nod in response.

Nick simply watched. There was nothing else he could do. For all he knew, the other robbers, or at least the other two that were still alive, could be waiting somewhere in the empty shadowed expanses of the building to ambush Nick, eliminating his chance to find Greg's body -- _closure_ -- once and for all and rendering the entire affair fruitless.

But still he stood and waited. He just couldn't force his hand to his waistband to find the gun.

He held his breath as, out of the corner of his eye, he watched Ari drag a heavy mass -- a body -- what he knew was _Greg's_ body -- out toward the center of the room.

Mr. Jared, still fumbling on his feet, took a step to the side, and Ari raised his gun -- almost in slow motion -- ready to counter any move to the contrary of his orders.

The sound was small.

So sharp and clean that it was almost imperceptible in the large, overbearing, overwhelming building.

A single bullet in hundreds of square feet of emptiness.

Nick swiveled his head automatically, finally reaching for his gun.

Automatically, he turned, shaking, to face Ari.

Only to find the space formerly occupied by the robber now also laid vacant to the residency of the insidiously hollow air.

But Ari hadn't run that fast, not without Nick hearing him, even in the empty building.

Nick lowered his gun to make out the body -- _two_ bodies. He shivered and snuck back a hasty breath of his own.

Warm blood moved down Ari Marvin's chest, traipsing toward the ground and drowning the air. Dusty, dried blood of the corpse -- the _other_ corpse -- _Greg's_ corpse -- looked dull and lifeless in comparison to the deeper, new flow that appeared mahogany over the dirty ground and beige jacket.

Nick withdrew a breath as he locked eyes with Bruce Jared. He would have known if the older man was carrying a weapon. He would have _known. _He had been the one to kidnap the man, after all, and forcefully at that. Bruce Jared was far too resigned to his fate -- he seemed to have been too resigned to his fate weeks ago -- to contemplate such a quickfire means of escape.

Bruce Jared just continued to stare, eyes downcast -- almost mourning -- at the body.

"I'm sorry," he whispered to the empty air.

But Nick couldn't see a gun in the man's hand.

He just didn't understand, even as he inched toward the bodies -- the one probably dead now and the one long ago emptied of life -- seemingly ready to reclaim his boyfriend's body, but now not quite sure what he wanted or why he was even _moving_.

He caught a glimpse of almost-glossy black waves -- _hair_ -- sliding against the empty air, and his confusion stuttered but lingered still.

The smooth almost-softness of metal tingling on the side of the back of his neck ended his confusion, even as it set in place another wave of unanswered questions.

"Don't move, Nick," the garbled voice whispered into his ear.

**

* * *

**

"I was too naïve," Wendy began, as the three sat in the Denali, Ciudad Juárez-bound. She craned her neck to glance at both Warrick and Catherine from the back passenger-side seat. "You know what they say about when something's too good to be true?"

Warrick shrugged. "Then it probably is," he replied, almost wistfully.

Wendy nodded. "Then it is," she repeated. "And Lenora Hernandez is too good to be true."

"Lenora Hernandez?" Catherine asked suspiciously.

"She gave us all the evidence... Damnit! She gave us everything!" Wendy crashed her fists against the back of Warrick's seat with only modicum of restraint. "She gave us everything, and she had an agenda. All of the evidence is tainted. The whole _thing_ is tainted."

"Wendy," Warrick said, reaching back a hand to soothe her. "It's alright. Why do you think she has an agenda? And who is she?"

Wendy took a deep breath. "Nick and I went to Juárez."

"Where you met the robbers..." Catherine said.

Wendy nodded, though she knew the older woman probably couldn't see her from the driver's seat. "We met her before we met -- or before _I _met them.

"Nick met someone else," she added quietly.

Catherine pursed her lips, silently storing the last bit of information for future questions, no doubt, but said nothing.

"We went to the morgue. The Ciudad Juárez morgue. That's where I met Lenora. She was waiting there."

"Waiting for you?"

Wendy shuddered. "Honestly, I don't know anymore." She thought for a moment. "But I don't know how she could have known we were coming... No, there's no way she could have known that. So she had to be there for something else."

"What did she say she was there for?" Catherine asked.

"She said she went there often. Now that I think of it, she didn't really give a real reason why. Not a concrete one."

Wendy knew Warrick and Catherine had to be exchanging looks -- looks of incredulity that the young CSI wannabe had overlooked the overly helpful woman's lack of an alibi. In retrospect, everything about Lenora screamed suspicious.

"What reason did she give?" Catherine asked, interrupting Wendy's silently self-inflicted guilt trip.

"She said... she said she it was 'for so many things'... But most of all for Flor'."

"Flor?" Warrick asked.

"Her daughter. She said Flor left her, that she comes to the morgue to wait for Flor.

"She asked what I do. She said that she works on solving cases, in much the same way. But of course she only said that _after_ I'd told her what I do."

Catherine looked confused -- though at least not disappointed as Wendy had expected. "I don't understand, Wendy. How does this mean she's responsible for Greg's death? Or for anything?"

"Because of Sandra Ortega."

"The girl whose body you never found. Who was clearly killed _before_ you got there. Before any of this -- the casino heist, Greg's murder, Richie's crime and murder -- happened. Even if she is alive, why does it matter?"

"It matters because she's guilty. And she's working with Lenora."

"Guilty of what?"

"I don't know yet."

Catherine raised an eyebrow. Words were unnecessary.

Wendy sighed in frustration. "Sandra Ortega doesn't go by Sandra anymore. She goes by Nicola. She was working with Lenora. And she was also working with Ari."

Now, the CSIs' attention seemed to be rapt.

"After I met Lenora, a woman came out to speak with her."

_A door opened from the office itself and a slender young woman stuck her head out. Her eyes met Lenora's immediately, though her head remained down, as if trying to avoid notice from others in the room._

_"Ah, Nicola," Lenora said. "No tenemos suerte."_

_The girl shook her head, and Lenora took it in with acquiescence._

_She turned to Wendy. "Buenos suerte. And nice to meet you." She pulled out a business card. The gesture seemed less practiced this time, and the cards fit her pocket less. "If any of you... _CSIs_... or anyone else from LVPD... is ever interested in helping with my task -- _our_ task -- that is, to find and help with 'los feminicidios', please do. We always want help."_

_Wendy nodded. She wished she could. "Thank you. Nice to meet you."_

_Lenora smiled back. "Y tú también._

_"We must go then," she remarked as she trotted toward the door. The girl followed, head still pointed down. "Vaminos."_

"It's the same girl. I know it's the same girl. I _knew_ Sandra Ortega's face looked familiar."

"But that doesn't explain why Sandra Ortega, or Nicola, or whatever her name is, would be working with Ari."

Wendy gulped. "The night after that... in the maquiladora. When I talked to Ari -- the man with the Garbled Voice -- he said... he said to drop my gun... that _Nicola_ was armed too. She had the same wavy hair.

She paused.

"It's the same girl. I _know_ it is. The Nicola that was spending time with Lenora is the same Nicola that was with the man with the Garbled Voice. The one who I think is Ari. And that Nicola's real name is Sandra Ortega."

"But... _why_?"

She was disappointed to still see incredulity on Warrick's face, but it didn't matter.

"It's not our job to figure out why people do what they do. We just have to find the evidence. And all of our evidence is pointing to Ciudad Juárez. Lenora said that she always goes to that maquiladora -- the same one that Nick and I met Ari -- Garbled Voice -- whoever he is -- and the other robber at. That's where he is. That's got to be where he is."

And so they drove on.

**

* * *

**

Nick paused. The air in the room seemed to gravitate toward him, concentrated, heavy and heated.

His faced flushed and, despite the heat, goosebumps flared on tan skin.

"He's not Ari," Nick said quietly, gesturing at the newly dead man lying on the floor. "You are."

The man didn't respond, but continued to hold his gun to the back of Nick's throat. Nick didn't remember Ari having such a rough voice. Then again, he could have a sore throat, or be trying to disguise his voice. It didn't matter to Nick. Whether the man standing behind him was Ari or Julian or Biggs -- or even whether the man he had initially spoken to, who he could have sworn was Ari, was. All that mattered was the other body lying on the floor.

Underneath the fresh corpse that may or may not have been Ari.

Underneath that was the corpse that he knew _was_ one Greg Sanders.

That had been their deal. He didn't care who he made the deal with. All he cared about was getting the body and returning. Bringing Greg closure and trying to heal the wounds stabbed and twisted viciously into the heart of his team in the last three months.

_Closure._

That was all.

Closure for his team, for him and for Greg. For Jan Sanders, crying at her only child's memorial service, unable to even bury her son's lost body.

For the life he should have had.

The life _they_ should have had.

Nick glanced over, numbed and disbelieving at the now-dead icy blue eyed man. "You shot him," he whispered at the man behind him.

"Actually, Nicola did. She's been working on her shot," Garbled Voice said with a surprisingly pleasant laugh. "Personally, I've never been big on guns."

Nick gulped. All he wanted was closure, not this. Not more death. He didn't need another man's death on his conscious, no matter who the man really was. He'd come here for closure.

The voice behind him seemed to disagree though, as if reading his mind.

"You're here for revenge. Revenge and absolution. You're not gonna get that here."

The voice was rough and heated. Pebbles grinding in his hand. Let out and thrown over denser air.

"Yes, I will," Nick replied stubbornly.

He could feel the heated breath on the back of his neck. It warmed his body and he drew in a reluctantly comforting sigh.

"Yeah, you will."

He was confused by the response. "Then let me!"

A slightly less rough chuckle met his words. "Yes. You will," Garbled Voice replied, amusement leaking like syrup into the bristly tones of his words.

It didn't make Nick shiver.

"I will," he repeated tentatively.

"Yeah, you will," Garbled Voice repeated for the third time. "It's the only thing you know how to do."

Nick gulped. "No. No, it's not."

"Yeah, it is. It's the only thing you know how to do." The man breathed out slowly, as if he had all the time in the world to spend in the barren breeze, surrounded by the same nothing. "It's all you know," he repeated. "Force. Revenge. Solutions. There's a problem and you fix it. Someone betrays you or messes up and you tell them off. For every action, a reaction of equal magnitude. It's what you know."

"Stop playin' mind games with me!"

Garbled Voice chuckled, cackling almost, and, through the rough tones on the ends, turned quickly into a cough. It recovered with new words as its producer moved around, gun still pointed, to face Nick.

Nick got his first glance at the man. Black leather jacket. A black mask covering his face. Blue latex gloves. Baggy jeans. A white floral design adorned the pocket of the jacket. He couldn't tell if it was a flower or wings, or even clouds or a tear in the fabric. A simple black mask covering the man's whole head. The same type the robbers had all used that dreadful night.

Nick catalogued every feature of the man. He was relatively tall -- likely around six feet -- and definitely on the slimmer side. He could be Ari -- making the newly shot man lying bleeding or bled out over Greg's body Julian -- but Garbled Voice was also thin enough to be Julian. Nick cursed his mind for forgetting the statistics of images that long ago branded themselves into his mind. Angry words from the night -- the ones that he _couldn't_ forget -- would be so much less useful than actual memories of physical characteristics. Then again, he hadn't been able to see their eyes that night. After all the pain they'd caused him, he couldn't even recognize them. The only mug shots of the robbers that he'd had -- ones he'd only looked briefly at weeks ago -- were from previous decades.

How could he forget such a thing, when it involved the men who had killed Greg? How was it he couldn't even tell them apart -- couldn't even tell if it was Ari or Julian or someone else entirely lying dead on the floor. He growled in frustration. "What do you want?"

"You to go away," the man replied simply. The ragged voice frustrated Nick.

"Well, then I think we're good," Nick responded. "I'll just be getting that body and --"

"No, you won't," the man replied with a commanding and almost oxymoronic smoothness.

"Yes, I will."

"They take him away, so you're gonna solve it by just taking him back. That right?"

Nick gulped. "Yeah."

"Force begets force. That's right too, isn't it?"

Nick furrowed his brows in confusion. "I don't know what you mean."

Garbled Voice sighed in frustration. "Of course you don't. Idiot."

"Hey! --"

The gun now digging into his chest reminded him of his position, or at least it seemed like it was supposed to.

"You can't scare me out of taking it."

"Yes, I can."

The man moved in a circular motion, forcing Nick to follow at a 180 degree angle, always moving and always facing the masked robber.

"I have a gun. It's pointed at your chest right now! Did you somehow miss that?" the man asked in frustration.

Nick just shook his head.

Garbled Voice paused, almost appearing. "So back down!"

Nick shook his head, and the robber growled, clearly irritated.

"Is he really worth dying for? Is _Greggo_'s corpse really worth kidnapping a poor old man and risking your own life for? I thought you were supposed to be the _hero._" He said the last word with bitterness.

"Yes. It's worth it."

Another growl. "That's bull and you know it. Why are you _really_ here? Some show of macho bravado? To show off to the rest of your police department, that Nick Stokes never lets a man fuck with him and get the last laugh?"

Nick glared further at the double entendré. "Nobody fucks with _Greg_," he corrected. "Nobody. I won't let them."

A ragged, sardonically smirking laugh. "You don't know what you're talking about." The words were barely loud enough for Nick to hear them. "But you already did," the man spoke again, softly, gravelly words creeping across the foot separating the two faces. "_You_ already fucked with him. _You_ fucked with his head... With his _sanity_. You say _let_ like its your place to let them hurt him or protect does it become about _let_ting? Exactly how much do you think you can _control_?" The robber leaned forward -- Nick barely retreating back -- enough to whisper in Nick's ear. "You think you have control over what happened that night? What happened in that SUV on the trip back? You think that he -- that _anyone_ -- was ever yours to control?"

Nick thought hard on the question, still not moving away from the robber's warm, musky breath. "He was mine to protect."

This time, the robber's voice was a genuine, almost painfully sneering whisper. "Then maybe he wasn't yours at all."

This time, Nick did back up. "What did you do to him? What should I have protected him from?"

The robber relaxed his stance, even hunching over the tiniest bit, as if giving in to some other temptation. "Y-you tell me."

"What do you mean?"

The robber sighed, glancing up at the sky as if for an understanding witness. Of course, he was met only with hollow ceiling. "You think we hurt him more -- worse than you did?"

Nick stared in shock. "Nuh -- yes -- I mean..." he stuttered for a few seconds. "I don't know! Why does it matter?! He's gone, and he deserves to get closure. To be buried and --"

"_Closure_?" the robber asked in exasperation. "_He_ deserves closure. That's what you're saying. You're coming here for _his_ closure?!"

"Yes," Nick said resolutely.

"Yeah," Garbled Voice said with a huff, a pause and a turn to the side, shaking his head to himself. "Like your own emotions have nothing to do with it?"

Nick scowled. "Of course they do. I loved him."

The robber coughed. And then laughed. It was almost a crazy laugh now. "That's not what he told us." Even underneath the gravel of the voice, Nick could hear the ragged desperation mirroring his own. But why? What did Garbled Voice -- _Ari_, he _had_ thought -- have to lose by giving back Greg's body?

"When did he say that?" Nick asked in a small voice. He cut off what would have been a reply. "Never mind. I don't need to know."

He glared up, but couldn't make out eyes behind the mask.

"You know I'm right," the man said. But Nick could still feel the gun wavering.

Nick was silent. He directed his gaze at the earthen floor, which didn't look quite so bad anymore.

The man took a deep breath, and the gun's shaking stopped. He spoke more softly this time -- his tone was more friendly, as if exchanging questions over coffee rather than pointing a gun at Nick's head. "You never answered the question."

Nick's raised his head slowly and curiously in response. "Which question?"

"Julian's question. From the first night in Juárez."

Nick was confused, and he knew it showed. "Which night? I thought I was talking to you, or to Ari, or -- I don't know. I don't know who's who."

Garbled Voice just chuckled. "Maybe I'm Julian. You'll never know."

"Your voice sounds different," Nick ventured. "Different than anything I recall."

Garbled Voice shrugged. "We've talk-- spoken before." He turned to glance nervously over his shoulder.

"I want the body."

"Why is he worth it? How in the _world_ could _he_ be worth _all this_?"

Garbled Voice inched closer, and, in that moment, Nick felt himself lose it. The way the man spoke, the way he moved -- everything about him stole Nick's control the same way it stole all of the insidiously empty air invading the room.

"This," Nick pushed his hand forward, loosely removing the cloth from deep coat pockets. "It's his pillow case."

He pushed it forward toward Garbled Voice, who, this time, finally leaned away.

"It still smells like him. I need to smell him again. It's losing his scent. I can't remember what he smells like anymore. I want to. I _need_ to."

The man's voice was clinical this time. Coldly objective: "Scent holds the most powerful links to memory. More so than any other sense, and in disproportion to its relative value in sensory perception."

Nick simply nodded, accepting that the man's words would topple over him.

"I miss the way he smells," he whispered. "I miss waking up with him in the morning. The way he snored."

A desperate chuckle at his own words.

"The way he smelled in the morning before he put gel or shampoo in. The way he leaned back against me. The coffee we'd make in the morning, and the way he'd perk up with one sip of Blue Hawaiian at first, but how, later on, it would take at least two cups to have the same effect. I never knew if it was my fault, though he said that he'd just become more dependent on it." He glanced up, as if to add a necessary addendum. "He was a chemist. Really smart. He knew about all of that stuff."

"It wasn't your fault," Garbled Voice replied, almost instinctively. "Chemist?" he asked. Emotionless again.

Nick nodded.

"He was a CSI. He stopped being a chemist... err, or he didn't really ever stop. He just wanted to be in the field. Solving the cases directly. Hands-on. He wanted to see the difference he was making directly." Another sad laugh. "He told me once that he also wanted to go into the field because of me."

"And?" Garbled Voice asked slowly -- controlled.

Nick shook his head with regret. "I laughed it off. Said that was silly. That he sure as hell should have a better reason for changing his whole job than to work more with the person he was sleeping with. But then we changed shifts that year, so it didn't really matter. We didn't get to work together anyway." He spoke softly again. "I didn't realize how much I missed him that year. But I did. A lot. _Now_, I realize it... Now that it's too late."

Silence.

"I gave you what you want," Nick said quietly.

A laugh -- plain, simple and truly smooth, unlike the voice -- met him. Perhaps a façade broken temporarily. "No. No, you didn't."

Nick shrugged.

"You have to go." Composure regained. "You can't take him."

Nick said nothing.

"I'm sorry you drove all the way down here."

Nick snorted. "You had me come here in the first place, Ari. Or are you Julian? Either way, one of you made me come down here. And, in that case, if you're not giving me the body back, then I'm taking Bruce Jared with me."

"You couldn't have given him over anyway, even if you'd wanted to," Garbled Voice replied with resignation.

"But I --"

"No, you couldn't. As soon as I pulled out the gun -- as soon as it looked like I was really going to shoot him -- you would have done something. Found some other way. Greg Sanders' body isn't worth his. You're the _hero_. Remember?"

The last words struck a peculiar chord in Nick, but he ignored it, too overcome by the affront to Greg. Nick fumed. "Yes, he -- _it_ -- is! His is worth any bodies. He's worth any life, at least this bastard's!" He motioned to Mr. Jared. "At least mine!"

"No dead body's worth a living one. You should know that by now." Garbled Voice shook his head. He rubbed a hand over his brow, chuckling, as his gun wavered in consequence.

"His is."

"Why would you give yours for his dead body? How would that be worth it?"

"Because I owe him that much."

"_Owe_? Why?! What could he have possibly done to make you owe him that much?"

"I broke his heart," Nick whispered. "He gave it to me and I broke it. You're right that you guys probably never hurt him as much as I did." He choked back a sob he hadn't seen coming.

"How?" Garbled tone disbelieving.

"I broke his heart!" Nick yelled, angry to be repeating himself.

Another irritated laugh. "That's hardly specific! Plenty of people break plenty of other people's hearts every day. Hardly means it's worth dying for!"

Nick gulped. "It was with him." The words were lower and softer than he'd meant, but he was no longer afraid of letting the emotion out. Something about Greg had taught him that, though he didn't know if it was the death or the shared life that had been the source.

"How, then?" The voice rose in intensity. "How could you break it _that_ hard?"

"He gave his all, and I didn't give anything." Nick bit back tears. "On his death bed, he was still telling me to find someone else, to forget him. He cared that much about me. He loved me so much that he just wanted me to be happy, even if I forgot him."

"So then isn't that your solution? Come on!"

"What do you mean?"

"He told you to forget him. So... forget him." He said it as if it was the easiest concept in the world -- the simplest formula utterable.

"No." Nick steeled his jaw. "No, I can't."

"Because you _owe_ him?" This time, the voice was sarcastic, bored even.

"Yes."

"Is that really what you think it's about? Giving and taking? He gives, so you give back the same amount? That what a relationship is? Just a barter? _Seriously?!_"

"No," Nick shook his head, surprisingly unconfused and, as a result, dejected.

"Then why?" Garbled Voice's exasperation was clear at this point.

"Because I just want to give him something," Nick said softly. He could see the robber's distraction and, in that moment, he knew it had to be Ari he was talking to. The wistful regret was too visible. Too redolent of a man still stuck, years later, on lost love.

"Because I loved him," Nick said softly.

The other man turned around. "Take him. Take whatever you want," he spoke softly.

Nick was too dumbfounded to reply. Cautiously, he approached the body.

THE body.

Hesitant steps.

Light breathing.

It was surreal.

He'd waited so long that it was almost anti-climactic.

Especially when he realized that the body wasn't Greg's.

"You bastard!" he yelled, charging at the man. He didn't care if it was Ari or Julian or any other sick son-of-a-bitch.

He landed a punch, but the man quickly maneuvered around.

Nick tried to pin a wrist, but the man swerved away, barely lying underneath Nick and no doubt ready to pounce.

He pulled a glove off in the process. A soft, moisturized hand met his, and he pushed with all his might.

He barely noticed the tears pushing down his face.

"Please," he pleaded. "Please, just give me his body."

"He's not worth it," the man replied. "Not to you." True desperation -- now fully matching Nick's own -- at last leaked out of the rough, curdling voice.

"Yes he is," Nick grunted.

A nostril flared on the man, accompanied by a moan -- no doubt of exertion, but also of something else. "You never gave an explanation."

Nick grunted as he fought for control. A quiet, slightly verbal acknowledgment of his growing frustration.

Déjà vu hit him, and he didn't know how.

"I don't need to explain," Nick said, grunting as he got in a jab at the man's chin before the man rolled out from under him. "I don't need to explain at all," Nick said as he felt the man pin Nick's own wrists before trying to get up.

Nick pushed out an ankle to trip the man before charging and falling in exhaustion over him, pinning his foe in the process.

"I don't need to fuckin' explain!" Nick repeated, voice low. "Ah'm not here b'cause I owe him," he said as he swung haphazardly at the man's chest, too tired for much more effort.

"I'm not coming here to make anythin' up or to prove anythin'," he slurred, pushing another fist down, barely noticing its deflection.

"Not to get revenge. Not ev'n to fight you," he said as he slowed his swinging.

He pushed down hard but slowly with arms and feet and limbs, and saw nothing else. He saw sad eyes and loving eyes and eyes brimming with tears but also hope, and he heard the sound of laughter and pleading and garrulous story telling and the faintest snores turned into yawns and felt the warmth and comfort of waking up in familiar arms that he missed so much and he just _had_ to fight it. To fight _for_ it.

"I'm just here for me. Because he matters to me. Because I want him to be home."

Nick didn't recognize the tears falling, nor the faltering of his fists as he hunched over, no longer compelled by unfamiliarity to pound away at the man under him, and his head rested on the chest of the man under him.

The man caught the last quivering hand, barely even curled up into a fist anymore.

"You really did love him," the man conceded, rough voice not so rough anymore.

The chest underneath Nick coughed as garbled voice eased to favored smoothness.

Tears, born of frustration, continued to stream down Nick's face onto the chest now rumbling with new words --

Two words exchanged to mean the world as rough tones gave way to smoother, nasally familiarity --

"You really _do_ love _me._"

* * *

Reviews = love.


	33. El Desenlace

I haven't quite forgotten this story. Promise. Or, in the very least, PraetorCorvinus has not forgotten it, and this chapter is technically an egregiously late HelpHaiti auction/giftfic for him. I hope you guys haven't totally forgotten various case-related plotlines and clues during the long wait, as some will be dealt with in this chapter. Title translates to 'denouement'.

**EL DESENLACE****  
**

Nick stared down in disbelief at the masked man under him. The words had yet to truly take effect.

And the voice... That _voice_.

No longer garbled, it resonated with the most beautiful familiarity - one that tore at Nick's heart even while easing it's stresses, leaving his chest paradoxically tightened with joy.

Nick shivered as he looked down, unclenching his hands. He traced a finger along the body under him.

A black leather jacket with a flower on the breast pocket. Nick dragged a solitary index finger over the fabric. He pressed down lightly.

_Was he real? Was this really _Greg_? _

Nick couldn't decide, and he wasn't ready to have his newly resurrected dreams shredded in an instant, so he continued to cautiously investigate.

The jacket was worn, and he could feel warmth - warmth and a smell; a faint one that could only really be described as the quintessential smell of someone just being _alive_, and he could have sworn that that scent was a familiar one.

But maybe that was just because _he_, Nick, was alive.

He was, right?

Wasn't he?

His mind debated reality. And he still wasn't sure of the portraits laid out by this reality.

So he investigated further.

He moved his hand up. He felt under the jacket. A striped tee-shirt with something written in Spanish. _'Vive la musica'_. That seemed Greg-ish enough, he thought, tracing painted manila letters over the shirt. He was still afraid to move his hands any further up. He couldn't be wrong.

A light stretch of skin - tanner than Nick remembered - peeked through the bottom of the mask and the collar of the shirt.

He felt it. It was dryer than he'd remembered. A hand came up to clench his own, the grip strong but firm as it folded his over the bottom of the mask, willing him to work past his hesitations and move the fabric out of the way.

His hand trembled, but the other hand - _Greg's_ - held it steady. Nick took a deep breath and slowly crept his hand up, under the mask. He didn't know what to say. He didn't know what to feel. He couldn't feel - he was too overwhelmed.

"Go ahead," the voice, no longer garbled - _Greg's (wasn't it?)_ - whispered lightly.

He pushed his hands further, but he had to move the mask. He _had_ to. Was it trepidation - fear that it would all go wrong again - or the urge to savor the precious moment, perhaps even the _need_ to savor it, lest he combust from the sudden and unexpected rush of new emotions - new relief of the strongest he'd ever felt - before he had a chance?

But the hands ushered him on.

He could feel the other's - _Greg's? - _ breath against him, warming his face and, in the process, unravelling his state of mind.

It was warm through the fabric of the mask. _Alive_. That was how it felt. And suddenly Nick felt like the dead one. Like he wasn't pushing out the air - the force of just simply _life_, and _liveliness_. Greg was _alive_ - really _living_. Wasn't he?

NIck had to know. Delicately still, he pushed the mask further. His breath hitched as more skin became apparent. Tanner still, and dryer, but it looked right in some intangible way. The undefinable familiarity from knowing someone the way he knew Greg. The way he had _known_ Greg. No, he thought - he forced himself to remember - the way he _did_ know Greg.

After so many years, he knew. He just _knew_.

Another inch forward, and now the fabric clung over the bottom curve of a thin lip.

He could feel Greg's breath hitch this time. Nick let out a sigh of relief, but only halfway. He didn't realize how much he was trembling until he noticed the light fluttering of the fabric in his hands. He pulled it up another inch, and there was a mouth. _Greg's_ mouth. He leaned in gently, by less than an inch, startled when the face - when _Greg_ - moved twice the distance to meet him. Close lips touched, and Nick wanted to continue, to put off the final answer he couldn't help but dreading, but also to just keep _feeling_ it. He had to see Greg to believe it - to believe in _him_.

Another two inches this time, and now he saw a familiar nose, long and elegant. Nick smiled. He had never felt such a twinge of love at only the sight of a nose. But it was a pretty nose. His favorite nose in the world. He touched a chaste kiss to the tip of it. _Greg's_ nose. It _was_ Greg. He knew it. High cheekbones still weren't visible, but he knew those familiar three moles dotting the cheeks. Longer hair didn't completely cover ears that had always stuck out a bit more than average. Nick smiled wider and pushed hair back over _Greg's_ ear, something he didn't think he had ever done before.

He heard the slightest moan from beneath him. His smiled eased to exultant comfort and he held back laughing tears as he rested his forehead against Greg's. But it was still only fabric touching back. He raised his head and finally raised his hands as well, now ready to push fabric up and off.

The rest of the inches swept away, and he met dancing, swerving and familiarly loving eyes.

He stared speechless for a second before the man - _Greg! It _really_ was Greg! - _raised a hand to cup the back of Nick's head. The other hand propped Greg up. Their faces touched.

Nick only barely noticed the girl with long, curly black hair passing Greg a handkerchief.

Tears won out. Nick was blinded by relief.

He laid against the dusty concrete of the maquiladora, clutching Greg's hand, which itself maintained a sturdy grip.

Nick couldn't explain it, but somehow Greg's hand felt stronger than he remembered it.

**

* * *

**

Wendy spotted _Her_ leaning against the rough concrete of the maquiladora's outer wall. The other woman's legs were folded beneath her, and she seemed unusually angular and precise, as if waiting for precisely nothing.

Nothing, it seemed, was exactly what she gave back. Her eyes, which would have been nondescript had they not already sliced firmly into the front and back of Wendy's mind, stared sharply at the approaching vehicle, and Wendy couldn't help feeling judged.

A case come to life - hopefully not death - in front of her, and she was forced to the realization that people were _hard_. And that victims were so much more complicated when they were actually alive. Then again, was Nicola, Sandra Ortega, or whichever name she preferred actually a victim?

The sharp stare made Sandra Ortega's case. Wendy glared back from behind the shield of the front Denali window and sunglasses.

Warrick waited patiently, appraising the situation - particularly the vehicle's stillness - but Catherine finally cleared her throat, leaving Wendy no choice but to open the door.

She would have done it anyway. On her own. Independently and assertively, Wendy re-assured herself before tripping out of the car door.

Sandra Ortega raised an eyebrow and attempted to disappear into, behind or through the cement wall. She seemed good at disappearing away.

"W-wait," Wendy said, assurance feigned.

"Hey -" Warrick began. Wendy couldn't let them take it on. Steal her thunder.

"Wait!" Wendy interrupted, speaking more loudly.

Sandra paused, made brief eye contact and then took off running.

Wendy lunged forward, preparing to sprint, before stutter-stepping back to direct Catherine and Warrick in the only directions she could think of at the moment. "Run!" she yelled, pointing left and right and hoping that they would coordinate appropriately.

She herself followed the perp - vic, person of interest, whatever she was... - directly. Wendy was reasonably fast, but she was willing to jump over and crash into everything that got in her way, which in turn finally led her to the other side of the building, between a corner and a jutting rectangle of wall. And directly into Sandra Ortega.

"Oof," Sandra said, barely trying to move away. "What is your defect?" she asked in heavily accented, almost humorously clunky English.

Wendy eased herself off the other woman, though she still kept her arms steadil locked around Sandra's, preventing the other woman from making an escape.

Wendy felt the gun in Sandra's pocket and yanked it out. She didn't quite feel like threatening out the answers yet, but it was worth having. With the extra deterrent, she allowed Sandra to sit up more fully.

"Manos," Wendy ordered.

Sandra complied, sticking her hands out. Wendy handcuffed them before letting the other woman up, or at least far enough up to sit down. Wendy hunched back, putting a few inches between her and her not-quite-perp.

Sandra didn't say a word.

"I need to find Nick. Make sure he doesn't do something stupid," Wendy said quickly, almost defensively.

"Stupid?" Sandra paused. "How? By what action would he do something stupid?"

Wendy paused. "There's a man, Bruce Jared."

"Oh, he is safe."

"Then there's another man. I believe he's Ari Marvin. I know _you _already have them all figured out."

Sandra eyed Wendy for a few seconds before nodding again. "I know it all," she said distinctly.

Wendy signed a deep breath of relief. "Then you know that nobody's dead in there?"

A curt shake of the head in response. "Ari Marvin."

"What about him?" Wendy asked in astonishment. "He's not -"

"Dead. I shot him. He was trying to kill the other man. Bruce Jared. I was worried. So I shot him."

Wendy nodded slowly. She hadn't realized just how involved the other woman had gotten. "How'd you find out about everything?"

Sandra didn't respond, instead staring back, still suspicious.

"You work with Lenora."

Sandra just stared back.

"You work with anyone else?"

"Guito."

Wendy blinked. That name had never come up.

"Who's Guito?"

"Friend."

Wendy rolled her eyes. "What kind of friend?"

"Good friend."

"How'd you guys get here? How'd you get involved in all of this?"

Sandra shrugged. "It was not my decision."

"Whose decision was it?"

Sandra shrugged again.

Wendy turned around at the the sound of incoming huffing breath. She was greeted with the sight of Catherine and Warrick. Their heavy breathing and sloping strides told Wendy that they had just found the two after exhausting other options in the premises.

"There you are," Warrick said softly.

Wendy only smiled in greeting. "Warrick Brown, Catherine Willows. Meet Sandra Ortega. Or should I say Nicola." She turned to the other woman. "What is your real name anyway? Which one do you actually use now?"

The other woman shrugged with feigned disinterest.

Wendy motioned for Warrick and Catherine to sit down next to her on the dried dirt. "I'll ask again," she said. "How did you get involved."

Silence again. Sandra looked at her fingers, moving them up and down, one after another. Wendy couldn't tell if it was fidgeting or a show of willful noncompliance.

"You were there that night."

"I don't know which night you're talking about," Sandra replied.

"Well," Wendy began. "You were here that first night. When Nick and I met one robber. He gave us a package."

"Julian," Sandra responded. "That was Julian."

Wendy nodded, grateful for the small degree of cooperation. "I had a feeling that's who it was. You were hiding somewhere. Up on the platform above the ground where we were. Or maybe just in the shadows. Same place you were hiding when you shot Ari."

Sandra nodded. Catherine gave a slight gasp but quieted quickly. Warrick reached a hand around the older woman.

"You were here the second time I visited. The time when Nick and I split up. When I talked to him by myself. Just me and Ari. He said, '_Nicola's got a gun too.'_ You're Nicola. You go by that name also."

Sandra nodded.

"But he wasn't really Ari," Wendy stated confidently.

Sandra's eyes grew wide and she glared further at Wendy.

"You just said you killed Ari."

More glaring.

"But you were working - working closely - with whichever robber it was that I met at the maquiladora that night. Whoever it was, you wouldn't have killed him just to save Bruce Jared, a man you didn't know in the first place. It also wasn't Julian either because Julian was definitely the first man I met - the one Nick and I both met together. And that man wasn't the same man as the man that I met the second night by myself. The man with the harsh voice."

Still more glaring.

"And the robber I met that night... he wasn't Richie because Richie was already dead."

"Which leaves one robber," Sandra replied with forced nonchalance. "I'm working with the other one."

"No you weren't." This time it was Warrick who replied. "We were with the last robber, Biggs. He was in Las Vegas at the time. He has an alibi. We were talking to him."

"Indeed." Wendy smiled, pleased to have cornered her witness so quickly. "Which means that he wasn't any of the robbers."

Sandra swished her fingers back and forth, and this time Wendy could tell that it was genuine nervous fidgeting.

"So it wasn't one of the robbers. It was definitely a man. So not Lenora either."

No response again.

"Guito?"

Still no response. Wendy went for a change in tactics.

"If you didn't rob the casino, then why the need for you to help cover it up? Why try to help Ari Marvin kill Bruce Jared?"

"I didn't help anybody try to kill anyone."

"Then Guito or Lenora did."

"No!"

Finally, some emotion, Wendy thought. She thought briefly. "How'd you get your name?"

"Guito gave it to me. Said he wanted to give me the name of a hero. Someone I reminded him of."

"Guito isn't an actual name in Spanish," Wendy mused aloud. "It's more of a nickname. A diminutive. It translates directly to 'my Dear G'."

Sandra glared, seeing the gameplan - and the checkmate - illuminated in front of her. Her king was exposed and Wendy had the advance.

Final move: "So where's your accomplice, Guito?"

"In there." Sandra gestured toward the building. She reached out to Wendy. "We're not criminals," she said softly. "We're just trying to help. Guito, Lenora and I. We do our own investigations. Guito just didn't want Nick Stokes to know. To know anything."

"I understand," Wendy replied. "But I think he knows now. I think he knows who Guito is. Or, should I say, who Greg Sanders is."

**

* * *

**

Ten minutes elapsed in pleasant silence and in the same not-yet-uncomfortable positions.

Ten minutes of simple companionable presence since Nick had removed the mask, and then regained his composure and yet somehow it seemed like he had discovered a different face, or at least a lighter yet more durable - and more recognizable - mask underneath. It had been a comfortable silence of the sort he'd so rarely shared with Greg. He knew then that it was a different man that he was not-talking to, though he couldn't quite tell if that was a bad thing.

Unable to decipher the muted change, Nick ventured at easier terrain.

"This is too easy."

Greg didn't muster up the energy to lift his head, but tilted it enough toward Nick for an audible response. "What is?"

"This," Nick responded. "You just let it all be - be like before," he stuttered. "Back to normal that easily. After I was that much of a dick."

Greg shrugged. "You weren't that bad."

He raised his head suddenly to look at Greg and inventory the other man's expression, which, surprisingly, had barely changed, having barely been anything in the first place. Nick growled. "I was awful."

This time, Greg lifted his head to meet Nick's gaze with a look of disdainful incredulity. "Nick, you're not a bad person."

"How can you say that? You don't think of _any_ action I committed that would make me a bad person while we were together?"

"I don't believe in bad people. Nobody's a bad person. We're all just human - flaws and all. Sometimes we do bad things. Sometimes we do good things. Some of us probably do more bad, but some of us probably do more good too."

"What about Cole Tritt?"

"Who's that?"

Nick did a double-take at Greg's blank stare. "You don't remember getting beat up?"

Greg glared back. "Of course I do. What's that supposed to mean?"

"I don't mean the most recent time," Nick said softly.

"Was Cole Tritt one of those reporters or something?" Greg asked, genuinely curious.

"He was one of those kids," Nick responded, voice even and gentle. "One of the kids that hurt you."

"One of the kids that was beating a _lot_ of people up. I remember DJ James."

"You mean Demetrius James."

Greg didn't nod or shake his head. "His friends called him DJ. So did his brother. His mother, Linda, was one of the only people that called him Demetrius."

Nick started to ask if Greg wanted to talk about it, but bit it back when he remembered the context of their conversation. There were a _lot_ of things that they needed to talk about. "He tried to kill you. He was going to," Nick said carefully.

"I didn't say that he was a good person," Greg responded. "But he wasn't a bad person either. No one is. As much as it sucks, we're all somewhere in between." His voice sounded intentionally emotionless.

"Does that really suck? I mean, if we're not all bad people, is - or _would_ that really be a bad thing?"

Greg turned around, expression almost dreamy - like his thoughts were somewhere in the building's now-sated air, pushing up into dirty, swimming clouds. "Don't you wish the world wasn't so complicated? That everything was a little more black-and-white?"

"Not really..."

Greg's expression - a roll of the eyes - told him just how predictable his answer had been.

"You really want more bad people in the world?" Nick asked.

"Maybe," Greg responded. "I just want more answers - or maybe less. I want a finite number of people whose shitty luck I can feel guilty over, so that I don't have to care about the rest." His voice picked up, and Nick could see he was getting at what he really wanted: "I want to know as soon as I meet a person - heck, as soon as I've heard of them - whether they're a bad guy or a good guy."

"Isn't that what their rap sheets are for?" Nick asked with a chuckle.

"A criminal record doesn't equal 'bad person'", Greg replied, sighing. "As much as I wish it did."

"I still don't get how any of this makes me a good person."

"It doesn't. It makes you human."

Comfortable silence came again, Greg's relaxed in the satisfaction of having proven a point, Nick's occupied with attempts to remember what it was he'd been trying to say in the first place.

"I cheated on you when you just wanted support and commitment, and then I left the guy's spandex briefs on our bed. And you just accept me back? It's not supposed to be that easy."

Greg cleared his throat, and Nick could adequately predict the coming tone of voice. He still _knew_ Greg, even those little verbal tics and vocal predilections. "And, less than a week before you did that, you'd gotten out of the hospital after being buried alive and getting eaten alive by crazy ants. To be honest, I was just glad you didn't look like one big puss bubble anymore."

Nick chuckled, even though he knew it shouldn't be funny. But if Greg was laughing too - or at least smirking like that - then it was alright. But he knew it was something more.

Greg's smirk grew stale. "Remember Walter Gordan?"

The question was unnecessary, but hung in the air, waiting for Nick to crush it down. Instead, in an attempt to learn from the lessons of the past 2 months, Nick lowered it graciously. "Yeah," he said simply.

"I think he's the only one I could ever really see as a bad guy," Greg said wistfully.

"Yeah, I'm not his biggest fan," Nick replied, earning a heavy laugh.

"Now, after seeing the stuff that goes on here - the feminicidos, the factory girls that go missing - he doesn't even seem that bad anymore," Greg replied, voice as hollow as the air had been, though it was more soulful. More desperate.

He turned to look at Nick, his gaze piercing and defining his words - defining _them_ too. "You were never that bad, Nick," he said in the most paradoxically strong, stubborn whisper. "I know the way you think. Black and white. It's always in black and white. Good and bad. You probably thought of yourself - of what we had - that way too. Well it wasn't. It wasn't at all. And, contrary to the impressions Sara and I might have left you with, it wasn't the reason I left. At least not the only one."

Nick stared quizzically. "Tell me more."

_**

* * *

**_

_earlier 2008_

"Why can't we just be good guys?" Greg asked the computer screen baring a pixelized, grainily twitching Sara Sidle.

Sara bit her lip, no doubt halting a chastising retort at the simplicity he craved. Then again, hadn't she been afflicted with the same unattainable need? "Because there aren't good guys, Greggo."

"You wish it was too, don't you? That we were right to put Marlon West away? That we should be able to lock Natalie away, and that I was right to run over Demetrius James?"

Sara glared back. "I don't want to be a good guy," she replied, voice terse. "I want a good _world_. There's no use in being a good guy if everybody else is rotten."

"Don't you want to stand for justice? To be the light in the darkness?"

She gave him an odd look. "You're not a superhero, Greg."

He shrugged. "Stanley Tanner thinks I am."

"Linda James, not so much. The wife of the guy you just arrested for giving her bed-ridden and miserable dying mother an overdose of Vicodin to put the poor woman out of her pain? Not so much."

Greg pursed his lips and looked down, ashamed. "It's not like I had a choice," he said in a small voice. "She broke the law."

"Because the law breaks people sometimes too," Sara said sharply before Greg had even paused. "It's rigid and inflexible, and sometimes shit just goes wrong."

Greg nodded and still didn't look back up. "The mother whose 12-year-old son is going to juvie because he thought his sister would be able to fly like Superman when he pushed her off the roof with his red blanket as a cape... she probably won't either."

"The illegal immigrant deported because she came down to the station after being robbed," Sara replied listlessly, implicit acknowledgment that the debate was over hanging in the air.

"Demetrius James."

Sara looked up, sharply again. "Natalie Davis."

Greg tilted his head, clearly ambivalent about the last name, but made no argument. "Kelly Gordan," he said, shuddering.

Sara nodded, throwing in as much support as she could from hundreds of miles away, and probably just in spite of being Sara Sidle.

"I wanna leave," Greg announced.

"Somewhere where nobody knows your name, eh?" Sara said with an amused smile that Greg barely noticed. He was too caught up in the splendid idea.

"Somewhere where nobody knows my name," he repeated. "Where I'm not a killer. Or a racist," he said the last word with great hesitation. It was a dirtier, more hideous word than any of the most distasteful insults.

"You're not," Sara said, clearly searching for better words. Despite her unconventional skill, it was not her finest hour. Blame the time difference, Greg thought absentmindedly. Greg chuckled. Her inability to refute it made him feel all the more tainted.

"Warrick wouldn't say you are," she said.

He shrugged. "I don't think I am. But that doesn't change what the rest of Vegas thinks of me. What Linda or Aaron James, or even that judge -"

"Don't get started on him. He was against you from the start."

"That doesn't change the fact that there was valid evidence against me."

"There was never valid evidence that race played any part in it. And _you_ know that it didn't. Everyone who knows you knows that. Politics was the only reason that that was brought up. Politics and the search for a good, juicy story."

Greg chuckled again, and again it was dry and bitter. "A good, juicy story," he repeated. "Everything's more black and white - forgive the word choice - in one of those." He paused. "That's where I want to be."

It was Sara's turn to bite her lip, though this time it was, strangely enough, to hold back laughter. "You really do want to be a superhero."

"I want to be the hero people need _and_ the one they want. And, if neither's possible, then I want to be one that they don't know at all."

"If you can't be a good guy - 100% good guy - then you don't want to exist at all?" Sara asked incredulously.

Greg paused in thought. "It's not that I want to be a hero - or a "good guy" - or not be alive at all."

"Well, you can be a nobody," Sara proposed flippantly.

Greg gave a small smile. "I'll never be a nobody in this town. Not with this job. Not with perps and, worse yet, their family members, and _victims' _family members - the ones where we, where _I_ can't even find the killers - I can't be a nobody when they're yelling at me or accusing me or, in the very least, knowing that I have some tangible influence on their lives.

He didn't understand why Sara was smiling. "I don't think you want to be a nobody, Greg," she said.

Greg glared. "I can handle being a nobody," he said defensively.

Sara rolled her eyes. "I don't believe you."

"But -"

She cut him off before he could respond. "But I think, maybe even more than that, you couldn't handle not _doing_ good. And I think you know - or at least _should_ know - that there aren't ways to do substantial unambiguously good things without doing some bad, or at least without having people questioning the good you're doing."

"There will always be critics, Greg," she said. "And I think we both know that your biggest one will always be yourself."

"No," he shook his head stubbornly. "No, there have to be ways to just be _good_. Good people have to exist somewhere."

"And what are you going to do, Greg? Get up, leave Vegas and go find them?"

He smirked, and he knew Sara was already regretting her words. After all, they did describe her own actions fairly adequately. She seemed to realize that.

"Come on, Greg. What about the people here who care about you?"

The smirk remained on Greg's face. "They managed fine without _you_."

Sara glared. "What about Nick?"

"He doesn't care that much anyway."

Sara rolled her eyes. "You guys haven't moved forward in the last 5 years, have you?"

"I believe we stopped moving forward when he let me move in with him, sometime after I complained about the rent being too high at my place," Greg said, mirthful eyes laughing in acquiescence.

"I know it sounds cheesy to base the status of an entire relationship on this, but -"

"No 'I love you'. Not once in 5 years," Greg interrupted, knowing all too well where she was going.

"Ouch," Sara said in acknowledgment.

"Not that it should come as any surprise to you," Greg replied without heat. "We've only had his conversation _how_ many times? But maybe the tropical breeze is getting to you, wiping away the unpleasant memories of Vegas." He paused, lost in thought. "That's what I need."

Sara turned away awkwardly, clearly uneasy about sending Greg on such a dangerous train of thought. "It's not all perfect here, you know," she said.

Greg laughed. "Nice try. You know you don't mean that."

"No, really. I miss Vegas."

"You mean you miss Grissom. And probably me. I _am_ pretty charming. And handsome. And everything you want Grissom to be more like, in general."

Sara laughed. "You wish. I miss _Grissom_, who is perfect the way he is. _We_ are perfect together, and I don't want him to change at all."

Greg's face grew grim again. "Well, given that I don't exactly have a Grissom of my own..."

"You think it gives you an excuse to just run away," Sara completed his sentence.

"Basically."

"You know my actual _work_ isn't all that morally clear."

Greg laughed. "Nice try. You're working with plants. How ambiguous can they be?"

"Well," Sara started, caught between laughter and haphazard grasps for valid refutations.

"Plants do what they're supposed to. There aren't any bad guys. It's thoroughly unambiguous," Greg said, smiling.

"Well, I cut them down, so I'd say _I'm_ the bad guy," Sara said, smiling brightly. "You really wanna come be a bad guy with me? A nefarious villain to the Plantae kingdom?"

Greg chuckled. "Okay, maybe not. I'll make sure to avoid plant work when I plot my grand escape."

Sara grew serious for a moment. "Seriously, Greg, I left for a lot of reasons. Ducking out of ambiguity? It's not enough of a reason. Not by itself. Do you really feel like it's killing you _that_ much? That that alone is really something that you need to get away from, something that outweighs the relationships you've formed in Vegas?"

Greg paused briefly. "Honestly? Yes. I can't handle being the bad guy for much longer. I want to make people smile." He didn't notice when his voice grew suddenly raw. "I want to be able to sleep at night, Sara. I want to not be tormented by the guilt - the wondering, on every case, if I'm even on the right side. I want to _know_ I'm doing the right thing."

"Well, as a member of the Las Vegas Police Department, or, really, any police department, that's not a guarantee that you're ever going to be able to get. We don't pick and choose which cases we follow, Greggo. If a drug dealing, girlfriend-abusing pimp shows up dead, we still have to investigate, even if the murderer is the girlfriend he's been beating and raping or the parent whose child got addicted to the drugs or caught in the crosshairs of the latest turf war. The law has its own definition of good guys and bad guys, and sometimes - all too often, sadly - that definition doesn't coincide as neatly as we'd like with our own definitions."

Greg nodded sadly. "If we could just only investigate the cases _we_ knew needed to be investigated, prosecute only the criminals who _we_ knew were a danger to the public..."

"You know that's not how it works, Greggo. You don't get to operate outside the law. Not here, or at least not in Vegas."

Greg nodded forlornly.

"People would miss you, you know."

Greg shrugged.

"Wouldn't Nick?"

Greg shrugged again. "I don't think so. And it doesn't matter. I miss my sanity more."

* * *

All feedback and comments, no matter the length, are very much appreciated.

:)

Harper


	34. Porque

**A/N: **Sorry for the ridiculous delay. The good news is I have the next chapter already written and reviewed by my the wonderful PraetorCorvinus, who has also reviewed this chapter. Title translates to "Because". Many thanks to PraetorCorvinus for general BAMF-ness and support and to LaughableBlackStorm and WitchGirl, who betaed a few scenes in this chapter and the next a while back. And, of course, many, many thanks to everyone who has stuck with this story :)

**CHAPTER 34: PORQUE**

Wendy would never quite understand what Greg had been doing all this time in Juarez.

Greg pushed himself past reluctance to explain it a few times, but it would never truly make sense. Wendy hoped it never would.

Warrick, however, seemed to nod with some hint of empathy. So did Catherine. Even Nick did. If Greg Sanders could grow so disillusioned, what hope was there for the rest of them?

"We just solved the cases," Greg repeated again. He leaned against the a thick cement column a few feet away from Wendy, arms crossed but tense.

Wendy could see the tears in Catherine's eyes, though she wasn't sure if it was more for Ari, Greg, Nick, the team, something else, or some alternate combination.

"You didn't have to leave us," Warrick said quietly.

"I know." Greg closed his eyes and sighed. "I'm sorry."

"We know," Catherine almost whispered, looking up at last from the body that once was Ari. Catherine had confirmed it.

"I didn't mean to stay here," Greg confessed. "I meant to come back. But it became so easy. Too easy. Staying here. I got to make a difference." He breathed in slowly. "I didn't realize that you'd actually... you know... miss me. At least that much."

"Underestimated the Sanders charm, huh?" Catherine said shakily.

Greg bit back a sad laugh. "Guess so."

Silence fell again.

"Did you kill Ari?"

"No." This time, Greg's voice was relief. "Nicola did." The look he spared for the younger woman was not lost on Wendy, and it seemed to hold at least a hint of disappointment. "She thought he was going to shoot Mr. Jared."

"You don't think he was?" Wendy asked, surprised.

"No." Greg shook his head. "He didn't have it in him."

Wendy raised her eyes. "I thought he just about killed you." She could see Nick tightening his grasp on Greg's hand. The older man sat next to Greg, leaning against the younger man's legs and rubbing his hand.

Greg shook his head again. "In spite of everything, I think he wasn't actually that bad of a guy. We had a pretty nice conversation on the way down to Mexico. I think he was just bitter." His voice grew quieter, but far more sharp. "Not that different than us, I gather."

"But _we're_ on the right side of the law," Wendy replied, stunned.

"I guess that's what I wasn't so sure about," Greg replied, meeting Wendy's eyes for the first time. His gaze was tired, but he didn't look as hopeless as she would have thought. "But I believe it now. Again." He stared at the ground, at some unseen darker spot that Wendy at first didn't recognize: the dried, washed away blood of Jane Doe #89. She got the feeling Greg wasn't going to say anymore.

Somehow Nick pushed it out though. "What happened that night?" His stare cut through to Greg's honesty.

"We just drove. Talked."

* * *

_March 3, 2008_

Slices of sunlight crept through the thin skin of Greg's eyelids, though he tried to ward it off, clamping his eyes further shut. No one nudged him awake. No alarm clock tolls or tossing body or kicking feet woke him, and Nick wasn't shaking him with cold, forceful hands and grating impatience to _wake up, hurry up and wake up, we've got a shift and I don't have time to wait to make sure you get your ass out of bed_, and Greg was surprised by how much relief that blissful emptiness surrounding him provided. He felt _free_.

He didn't even remember what case it was that he had last been working and that had, no doubt, given him nightmares the night before. He didn't even remember whichever nightmares had plagued him the night before. Maybe he didn't even _have_ them. That would be the day!

With leisure, he came to, and gradually recognized that the soft suede he laid against was not the bedding he was used to. He sighed but smiled anyway. He couldn't shake the precious feeling of being so very _free_.

He let his eyes fall open slowly, but again at his own pace. He yawned and stretched, only to find that the space he now filled was more limited than he would have thought. He picked up his head curiously.

He could see a yellow notepad across the seat and picked it up with interest. The handwriting looked familiar. _Warrick_. He glanced around at his surroundings again. _Warrick's car_. Mystery solved, he sighed contentedly and set his head down again.

"He's awake." He couldn't quite ID the voice, though he knew it wasn't Warrick's.

"Whosat?" He replied. He was a little startled by the way his voice slurred, but dismissed it as another repercussion of yet another late night at the Lab. Too bad he'd never thought to just sleep in the Denali before, he thought absentmindedly. It would have saved at least a few fights with Nick. _Ought to try that soon enough_, he mused. But why was he in the back of _Warrick's_ SUV?

"Oh, it's your best friend," the not-quite-familiar voice replied.

Sleep-addled as he was, Greg could still recognize the mocking in that voice. There was something distinctly unfriendly about it.

"Leave him alone," said another voice, this one more tired.

Greg was startled to see legs appearing over the back of the seat in front of him, followed by the rest of a darkly attired man ambling over with ease.

"How are you?"

Greg was surprised to see that the man hadn't bothered to remove the mask choking most palpable facial expression. Still, Greg could detect the concern lacing an otherwise chilly presence. It seemed fairly genuine.

Greg shrugged, meeting the blue eyes in front of him. The preceding hours came back in shards only to begin unravelling lazily.

"Ari?" Greg asked. His own voice sounded at least a little less slurred.

The man nodded before reaching out a hand. Greg had a feeling he ought to shirk away from the hand, but the joyful malaise of easy waking let him remain unmoved. He saw the slight smile in Ari's features.

"No fever," Ari said with relief.

"Why?" Greg asked, staring at the man with curious confusion. "Why do you care?"

"We're almost to the border. Don't need a hostage anymore."

Greg blinked and felt even more free. _The border._ It could symbolize so much. So many ways to escape the crimes of a past life. And so very tempting in the process. "I guess I have to hitch my ride back to Vegas then?" he asked.

"Do whatever you see fit," Ari replied with a close-lipped smile.

Greg considered it for a moment. "I'm an investigator," he began slowly, licking dry lips. "I can't leave without understanding."

"Understanding?"

"Understanding why. Why this all happened."

"Revenge," Ari replied simply.

"I can figure out that much," Greg said, rolling his eyes. "That's what it always is. Half the time anyway."

"You're a pretty good investigator, I take it?" Ari said, smiling. There was no mocking in his voice - maybe even admiration. Greg was confused.

"Not really." It was the truth.

"Is that so?"

He could detect the teasing in Ari's voice, but he didn't mind it so much. He shrugged. "Or so I've been told."

"Who told you that?"

"Nick."

"Nick? The other investigator at the casino? Other than Catherine, at least?"

Greg nodded.

"Your boyfriend?"

Greg glared. "Yes," he replied curtly.

"No need to get defensive."

"I mean, he didn't actually say that. But he implied it. I think."

"You sure don't seem like a bad investigator to me."

"Well, what do you know about investigating crime scenes anyway?"

"Not much, I imagine," Ari replied with another slightly-less-confusing grin. "Although I learned a little for the crime I got framed for." His expression grew more somber, even hidden under the mask.

Greg couldn't help rolling his eyes. "Yeah, that's what they all say. _Framed_."

"You don't believe me," Ari replied softly.

"Well, robbing a casino, murdering one of its employees and kidnapping me doesn't bode very well for your innocence, so, no, I'm not terribly inclined to believe you."

Ari smirked. "Very perceptive investigating."

"So you weren't framed?"

Ari's face grew cold again, at least from what Greg could see. A bit wistful too, though perhaps that was projection. "Sort of."

Greg frowned. "Explain."

"I didn't mean to kill him."

"That's what they all say." He paused. "Again."

"I suppose it is. I didn't shoot him though."

"Owen Jared? Or the casino worker?"

It was Ari's turn to frown. "Tam. No one called him Owen... I didn't kill Tam. Biggs shot Manny - Jared's guy, the casino _employee_."

"Tam." Greg mused over the name, tossing the syllable over on his tongue. "Who killed him?"

Ari glared. It was a harder, colder, sadder glare than Greg had seen the whole night. "The same son-of-a-bitch that Biggs capped," Ari replied bitterly. "But only because Jared told him to."

Greg stared at him quizzically. "Jared?" he asked.

"Bruce Jared. Tam's father. If you can even call him that."

"Why'd he want to kill his own son?"

"He didn't," Ari replied, shaking his head. "He meant to kill me, but it doesn't matter now." He turned to face the window before staring back at Greg again, even though his eyes seemed more to meet the dirty back door of the vehicle. "It's not worth it," he said softly.

Greg wasn't sure how to proceed. Nick was the one who excelled in interrogation. Who excelled in _everything_. "What wasn't?" he asked.

"Tam. All of it."

Greg didn't understand.

"That kind of thing. What we had. Tam and I."

Greg had a sinking suspicion of what Ari was talking about.

"That other investigator," Ari started.

"Catherine?"

Ari blinked. "No. The other one."

"Nick."

Ari nodded. "He reminds me of us."

Greg didn't know how to respond.

"I thought you reminded me of Tam. But you remind me of me."

Greg just stared quizzically.

"Hopeless."

"But -..." Greg trailed off.

"It never works out."

The statement lingered in the air. Greg had no desire to touch it, he didn't _really _want to touch it, but he knew he had to. He had seen the evidence, as evidenced by years spent in tense cohabitation with Nick. _It never worked out. _

"Getting over love is the hardest thing in the world," Ari said. "I never had the strength. That's why I'm here. Tam was worth it because he loved me back. He was worth spending the rest of my life missing him. At least I hope he was. I hope those years we had together were."

Greg nodded, seeing the implications. Was Nick worth it? When they broke up, which did seem inevitable, would it be quite so hard to get over him? It would be easy enough for Nick to get over it. Greg knew that much. The Texan was strong. Much tougher than Greg and, Greg knew he had to admit, less invested in whatever it was that they had between them.

"Is it easier to just run away? What about the other people I care about? Who care about me? What about Catherine and Warrick and Grissom? What about my mom?

"If you stay on this side of the border, I'll give you some of the money."

Greg stared, wide-eyed. "That's what this is about. You don't want to actually kill me, but you know I could prove you were guilty."

"If you stay on this side of the border, I'll also make sure that they don't kill you." Ari gestured to the front of the SUV, clarifying who "they" were.

"Do you want me to stay away to protect _me_ or to protect you all from prosecution?"

"Do you really love your life that much?"

The question caught Greg off guard. "Wha - what do you mean? I like being alive -"

"Do you like what's _in_ your life that much? The long, grueling hours, the lack of appreciation, the failed relationships. Is it all really all that meaningful?"

Greg swallowed and glanced to the side.

"Are you really happy?"

He felt himself tearing up, despite all his efforts at stoicism and a Nick-ish brand of heroism.

"Don't you want the chance to start over? To be the kind of person _you_ can be happy with?"

* * *

_mid-March, 2008_

"You know what these are?" The warm, accented voice broke him from a light slumber.

His eyelids flickered, and he reached up to rub his eyes and stretch. His arm was still sore.

"Implicit instructions from the doctors saying I should be allowed to sleep, without getting woken up?"

"Tsk tsk. Very funny, Guito."

"Ooh. I know, papeles!"

Lenora chuckled. At least he had correctly named the Spanish word for 'papers,' and they were, of course, papers.

He sighed. "Discharge papers."

"Muy bien, Guito."

"So when am I leavin'?" He added his best try at a Spanish translation. "Cuando puedo salir?"

"Ah. Muy bien. Su espanol es... what is it called... improving? Yes?"

"Yes. And I'm glad you think so too," he said, beaming.

"Now, to home we go. Debemos salir, mi flaquito. Vaminos."

He was relieved to be leaving the hospital, but anxious about Lenora's home. On the positive side, he wouldn't have to deal with new nurses every day, and the new words and faces and names that accompanied that change. After all of the change of the last week, he needed some stability, if that was even possible anymore.

He liked the nurses and doctors, but the looks they gave him frustrated him. All he could see in their faces was pity, and it didn't help that, most of the time, he couldn't understand everything they were saying.

He stared at the ceiling of the hospital - he knew he was at least tired of the dull and worn beige. It was strange how much the ceilings and walls of the hospital made him miss home. Home had had such a particular aesthetic, with bluish undertones and a spaciousness that made most comparable spaces seem so small in comparison.

Despite what his friends said of his apartment, which was - or rather, had been - quite the mess, he was not one to undervalue a beautiful space. When he had heard about Mexico, he had always pictured Cancun - bright and open, with beaches, tourists and historical landmarks, like the Maya ruins in nearby Uxmal and Chichen Itza. Those, as Lenora had reminded him with a chuckle, were all a part of the other Mexico - the one shown to tourists and the world. This Mexico, however, was far north of the Yucatan Peninsula, which housed such tourist attractions. Lenora had warned him that, when he entered her house, he would find a very different world than whatever it was that he had expected.

The first major change, she said with a chuckle, would be the food. It was not, he had to admit, the typical diner fare or work-a-holic and/or college cuisine, nor were most locations open at all hours. But, after a week spent in the hospital, and on paltry hospital food, he was more than ready for whatever Lenora was willing to cook for him.

He felt like a ghost at the hospital. He couldn't describe his reaction to the events of the last week - specifically to those a week ago. He wasn't himself anymore, that he knew for a fact. He didn't feel the same level of comfort. He didn't feel comfortable in his own skin the same way he used to.

Sometimes he felt like he was merely a spectator, left to watch himself like some astronaut, floating in outer space and observing from a distance. He could remark on the events in his life with greater objectivity, as if he didn't care what the actual events were anymore. None of it meant anything anymore.

He had, with every ounce of his body, expected to die that evening, and a significant part of him had never gotten over that; a significant part of him couldn't reconcile what should have happened with what did happen.

And he knew he would never get over either.

"Guito? You still with me?"

He looked up from the hospital bed. Lenora held a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, sloppily folded as if someone had just taken them off. "Yeah, sorry. Just spaced out a sec' there."

She shook her head. "'Spacing out,' as you say it, seems to be something you do much, yes?"

He nodded.

"Is alright. I often am spacing out too," she said, grinning. "Now go change," she added, holding out the clothes.

He reached for them happily as she continued out of the room. Looking them over, he was surprised. The jeans appeared relatively new. The t-shirt, however, was clearly worn. It bore a picture of a flamenco dancer, and the phrase, 'musica hay la vida.' _Music is life,_he translated in his head, chuckling. Though flamenco wasn't exactly his type of music, he appreciated the sentiment. When Lenora had, on occasion, gotten a word out of him as to his former life, he had spoken of music - Pantera, Metallica, Marilyn Manson - and she had laughed her hearty laugh at the "silly names of these people," as she had said it.

He tried to turn around and untie the hospital gown, wincing at the movement. Looking in the mirror, he located the tie and carefully worked his fingers toward the single string to unravel the butterfly knot. It came undone and he could feel the fresh air on his back. He shivered, and tried to fight the urge to trace the scars on his back.

He could trace them to the first accident - skin grafts littered the left side from the heat of the fire. Just as the scars had gradually faded, though never completely, his more fierce memories of the event had gradually withered. He regretted that it was the second, more violent incident that had most successfully driven it from his mind. His hands still shook occasionally from the first memory, and his head still throbbed from the second.

"Guito, are you coming?"

He had spaced out again.

He willed his fingertips away from the scars, and toward the clothes she had picked out for him. He ignored the pain as he contorted his sore torso, leg and arms to fit through everything. He was surprised how easily everything fit. He had lost more weight than he had expected.

He stared at the hospital walls, biting his lip and trying to convince himself that he was, in fact, ready for whatever came next in his life. He knew he wasn't.

He wasn't ready for what had already happened, and he hardly felt ready to deal with the repercussions. He wasn't ready to say goodbye to his lonely hospital room, because it was the only home he had gradually grown familiar with over the last week. He trusted the dull walls and squeaky bed, more than he trusted the outside world, and even more than he trusted Lenora, or any other person for that matter. People changed, but a room was a room.

The walls grew more tired over time, though he had noticed no difference over the last few days. The bedding was changed, but always looked the same. The door to the bathroom remained the same orangey maple, and the inside still smelled of warmed carrots. The same tinny sink sat next to the window, holding a small plastic basin. The dull grey had held many of the nightmares that had fought their way up his stomach and throat over the last few days.

He realized he barely even minded not having his normal "zesty" designer shampoo. He didn't have anyone to impress with nice hair anymore anyways. And it turned out that generic shampoo worked just as well.

"Guito?"

_Spaced out again._

Taking one last look at the only home he knew at the moment, he made his way for the door.

* * *

He rolled over, trying to escape the nightmare.

He squirmed. He shook. He tried to move his hands, but the imaginary binds wouldn't let up.

It wasn't real. He knew it wasn't real.

But then why couldn't he wake up?

Hands reached, grabbed, groped, hit, hurt. He couldn't fend them off.

Eyes peered down, taunting, leering, hating - but not even hating. They didn't care enough to hate. Apathy and intensity paradoxically combined in cold green, grey, blue, brown eyes. The color didn't matter because they all saw the same thing. They all wanted the same thing.

They had wanted to escape that building, to escape anything and everything capable of pinning them to the murder. Maybe they were motivated by fear, but he couldn't imagine the terrifying eyes having their own fears.

He struggled more, praying that someone would wake him up.

Instead, a new figure entered. He knew the silhouette without a face. It was still Nick.

The shadows moved as he, He, looked down. Nick had always been so easy to read, but he couldn't describe every emotion present on that face - oh how he missed that face, but feared it just the same. He peered down, staring at the bloody mess that was Greg, with his own pity, fear and disgust.

He looked up, wide-eyed, as the shadow moved toward him. But then he turned away. Catherine was waiting, still in the same spot - always in the same spot - as a week ago, her walkie-talkie in hand, barely covered by a backpack. She turned up her nose when she looked at him, before turning to Nick. "Come on, Nicky."

Nick, back facing him, walked toward her as she got up. Warrick opened the door and his last three friends exited.

"Wait," he protested. "Wait! Nick! Please don't leave me! I'm sorry!" Tears gushed out his eyes, even as he knew it was only a dream. That didn't make it any less real.

If, one of these times, he could only escape, and get up, and follow, maybe it would mark some moral victory over the scars still imprinted on his mind.

Finally able to open his eyes, he let out a sob.

* * *

"Esta preparado para volver a su hogar?"

"A si, yo pienso."

His Spanish had been improving a good deal in the last week, but he was still relieved that Lenora and the medical staff knew English relatively well. Already being bilingual, between English and Norwegian, he was able to pick up Spanish pretty quickly, especially after having taken it in college, in addition to his extensive Latin experience at his prep school.

That and Nick. Greg looked down, color rising and falling with shame on his cheeks, as he thought of his friend. He wished so much he could go back in time, to the strong arms of the Texan. They'd been together for so long - and Greg had barely grown used to not waking up in Nick's arms. The Texan had insisted on helping him learn Spanish, insisting it was a useful skill in Vegas. Greg had been learning, albeit begrudgingly. In all honesty, he just hadn't had that much time to practice. There had been too many doubles, and he was happier spending what little time off that he had on more relaxing pursuits, and with the book he'd been writing. His Spanish was decent, but he still wanted to find out what 'palomo' meant. Nick had always called him that... Greg willed his thoughts away from Nick, and toward the task at hand: communicating.

The new nurse came in, and began to unbandage his dressings. Greg gave up trying to understand what she said next, and braced himself for the touch of soft skin. His Spanish just wasn't good enough. He was relieved when she finally finished.

"Ay! Mi carino! Estas preparado?"

Greg couldn't help but smile at the familiar presence entering the hospital room. Lenora.

She was a big woman, at least in comparison to those around her. Her graying hair hung loosely in a braid down her back, almost framing the warm, maternal smile. The medical staff at Hospital Angeles all treated her with a certain deference, and Greg had some understanding of why.

He certainly was forever indebted to her. He barely remembered the morning she'd found him, bloody and broken, in a former maquilador - a foreign-owned warehouse, as he'd learned - on the outskirts of town. And now she was taking him to her home, - insisting that she had an extra room.

"Si," he replied, before switching to his native tongue. "As ready as I'll ever be."

* * *

Mexican food always used to remind Greg of Nick. He liked to think it didn't so much now. But thinking that _was_ thinking about Nick, in some indirect way. No matter what he did, he couldn't get away. He wished Mexico and Texas didn't have to be quite so next to each other. It was highly inconvenient to his efforts to forget. Then again, pretty much everything was.

A few days earlier, walking down the hallway at the hospital, he'd thought he'd heard Catherine's voice.

And, of course, he couldn't see an insect without thinking of Grissom. Or a bird without thinking of Nick. Green eyes, dice, tall people and that certain way of leaning in and making that intense but calm and mesmerizing eye contact reminded him of Warrick. His own mother might have been offended, but mothers reminded Greg of Catherine. So did Lenora. And everything reminded him of Nick.

He missed his team. He missed the way they flowed, the way they stressed, the way they sat at the diner ready to pass out after a tough shift. He missed the tone in Grissom's voice and the way his hands moved slowly in sharp lateral movements as he handed out assignments. Greg remembered his first assignment and tried to push away the cumbering, heavy nostalgia. He was happy now - _now_ - after all.

Greg was spared from further reminiscing - all of which would only, inevitably, lead to heartache - by Lenora's call for dinner. Lenora was just as much a nurturer as Nick had been, maybe even more so. She could take his temperature just as Nick had done - albeit teasingly - on his sick days, and, if the savory odors wafting in from the kitchen were any indication, she could make some mean soup, though he didn't know if it would be chicken noodle soup. At the back of his mind, he wondered if they ate chicken noodle soup in Mexico, or if they had some equally tasty and comforting alternative. He had always been a fan of Tex-Mex, though he knew authentic northern Mexican food could easily differ greatly from the standard Chipotle fare in Vegas.

Greg could smell dinner before he could see it. He wouldn't say yet that it smelled _better_ than chicken noodle soup. But it sure came close. It sure smelled _interesting_. He took another whiff. _Smells spicy. I wish I'd let Nick order more spicy food before, so I'd be more prepared now._

Lenora was a miracle worker.

Greg wished he could work miracles too. He wished he were strong enough, and brave enough, to will that one last night to change, to go away. He wished he weren't so pathetic. But he willed his thoughts away again. He hadn't allowed himself to think about it for a week, and he wasn't going to drop it now.

And Lenora seemed fine with that. As supportive as she was, she never once brought up what had happened - how, where or why she'd found him -, but perhaps that was part of being supportive. It felt good - good like the calm before the storm - the way the two went on with life together, talking only of mundane occurrences, as if it were normal for the 32-year-old American man with no background or family in Juarez to be living with the middle-aged Mexican woman. As if he had just appeared out of thin air in a place he had always belonged.

Perhaps, Greg couldn't help but thinking, he did belong here, in Juarez with Lenora. She was like the mother he'd never had. He had had a mother, but not one like Lenora. Jan Sanders had been overbearing to say the least. Lenora, on the other hand, seemed to combine the roles of cool aunt, friend and maternal figure into one. He enjoyed her company, and appreciated her poise. She was not, unlike Jan, one who felt the need to fill all silences. She was a calming, yet exuberant presence, and Greg genuinely enjoyed her company, or at least tolerated it more than he would have expected with any other person.

"Guito!" She called him from the kitchen, reminding him of the enticing smell. "Mi cordero, hay la hora de cenar!"

_Translation: dinnertime_, as Greg had learned rather quickly. Though he didn't think 'cordero' had to do with dinner. It seemed to be a term of affection, like a nickname, as Guito had been. He suspected Guito had been used as his name because all he could get out of a name when she'd found him was the letter 'G.' The ending, 'ito,' as Nick had taught him, was simply an extra two syllables, often added to any word to signify affection. So his name, roughly, meant 'My dear G,' or something like that. He liked it. It was vague and enigmatic. And vague and enigmatic was exactly what he was looking for.

* * *

Greg looked for semen stains in the dust outside the factory. It was a different factory - maquiladora, as it was called - but they all seemed the same.

The only liquid coagulating against dust was blood. "COD is probably in the last half hour," he said to Lenora casually. He leaned in to swab the blood with a q-tip. "There isn't much blood - maybe a few ounces at most. Probably a body dump."

Lenora had stopped moving. Greg kept talking. It was the first thing he'd done in Juárez that he really knew how to do. After so many cases, processing scenes was second-nature. "Given the small amount of blood _and_ the angle of the gunshot, she probably bled out somewhere else." He pressed a finger to the neck. "DB's still cold. The actual scene of the crime was probably air conditioned, at least. Either that or they kept the body cold somewhere."

Lenora still wasn't talking. That sort of quiet made Greg nervous. Always had. He quickly filled it the way he'd unintentionally mastered in the presence of the king of nervousness-inducing silences, one Gil Grissom.

"We've had enough cases like that before - with bodies frozen. We had this one guy - because of the temperature and rigidity, we figured he'd died in the last day. Turned out, he'd been dead for a week. Just stored in his mom's freezer." Greg chuckled. "I think he finished off her Ben & Jerry's, so it was a fitting end."

"My favorite was this one that had frozen on Halloween. People thought it was a decoration or zombie until the next morning when the weather finally warmed up and the body started smelling. The best part was that the guy had a cigarette in his mouth. Some trick-or-treater's mom asked him to stop smoking and called the cops because he wouldn't listen to her or take the cigarette out. She said it was a bad influence, and that she didn't want her trick-or-treater inhaling second-hand smoke. I say, if you don't want to your kid to breathe in that stuff, then don't have him go trick-or-treating down Fremont, but then that's just me," Greg said laughing.

"Most of all, you'd think she would have realized that the cigarette wasn't still burning. I mean, the body was fuckin' _frozen_."

"I thought she would have noticed _him_. A poor soul in need of help." Lenora's voice was angry, and Greg could sense the change in tone.

"Well, he was _dead._ Not much need there, except for someone to clear him out before he starts decomposing. Vegas weather isn't terribly predictable. If he started melting, that yard chair _really_ would never have been the same. And it was a nice yard chair. One of those ones that folds up in a whole bunch of different ways, really adjustable and all. I think it was custom-built -"

"So she didn't even call an ambulance."

"Nah. She called the cops to get one of them to make the dude put down his cigarette. Like I said, apparently it was pretty hilarious when they pointed out that the cigarette must have stopped burning over 3 hours earlier. She just saw the cigarette and panicked."

"They called the ambulance?"

"No," Greg replied. He stared at her strangely.

"Don't you have any hope?"

"Huh?"

Lenora shook her head sadly. "I'll teach you hope," she said.

"Then I'll teach you how to check for COD," he said, happy to be able to trade something.

"Maybe I don't want to know," she replied. She looked up, and Greg came to realize that he didn't quite know what she'd been doing at the scene this whole time. He had been checking the body, collecting swabs with q-tips collected from Lenora's bathroom cabinet and trying to get an approximate read on the DB's temperature, but she wasn't carrying anything and it didn't look like she'd moved or photographed anything either.

He saw her reach into her pocket to grab a disposable camera. Curiously, she only photographed the body's face, even though the injuries seemed more concentrated on the vic's torso.

She reached down a hand to close the victim's eyes, but Greg stopped her, grabbing her hand. "What are you doing?" he asked. "For all you know, there could be evidence there, caught between the lashes. Any speck of a fiber, let alone DNA, could be an important clue."

"The only clue is family. Someone to recognize her."

"You think her family killed her?" Greg asked.

A pained expression flitted across Lenora's face. "I think they know who she is."

Greg nodded slowly, not quite understanding. "But we'll probably need other clues to figure out who killed her."

"We don't need to figure out who killed her."

"But I thought you said we were solving murders."

"We are."

"How do you solve a murder without figuring out who the killer is?"

Lenora finally smiled. "Now I understand."

"Yeah... I still don't," Greg said, scratching his head.

"You _"solve"_ murders with revenge. You find out who hurt someone, and then you find a way to hurt them back."

Greg glared. "We put them in _jail_. Because that's the law."

Lenora only grinned more widely. "I know that. I understand. You don't mean to hurt them, exactly, and it is with reason. But what I do is not the same. I solve them, but I solve the pain."

"I don't understand."

"Revenge, or justice as you call it, does not solve the pain of the hole left behind. It does not solve the family's grief. _Memory_, not justice, is how you solve the pain. It's how you _heal _the grieving. Or at least begin to heal it."

What exactly Lenora did began to fit together, at least a little bit more, in Greg's head. "I... I think I kind of understand."

"Good," she said, smiling warmly. "But of course, there's one other thing I do. Sometimes, when I'm lucky, I find them alive."

He felt her eyes on him, and, more than anything, he felt himself fill up with warming gratitude.

* * *

The first girl was dead. It didn't surprise Greg. It didn't even disturb him. It had been a long time since a dead body had.

Lenora had seemed to hope that, with enough time, she could somehow give Greg enough of his humanity back to be disturbed again by them. Greg was honestly never sure if she succeeded any more than she succeeded in convincing herself that the world was a kind place.

Eventually, a few weeks later, they found a live one. Greg felt like he was announcing Frankenstein when he checked her pulse and shouted across the maquiladora to Lenora. It was in the same maquiladora where Lenora had found him.

She was an ordinary looking girl. Her black wavy hair was what Greg remembered the most keenly. More than anything, though, she just looked scared.

She couldn't remember her name, and Greg doubted he'd ever know whether or not that was intentional. Whether she was just trying to start anew the same way he had wanted to.

* * *

TBC


	35. Del Anónimo

**A/N: **Thanks again to the wonderful PraetorCorvinus for feedback and to PsionicSpecter, CrystallineSolid and QueenOfTheUniverse for sticking with the story and reviewing :) You guys rock! This chapter title translates to "Anonymous". If my Spanish is off, please do let me know :)

**CHAPTER 35: Anónimo**

The original team - or what was left of it - sat contentedly, and Wendy wanted to smile as she looked out over the scene unfolding.

She was happy observing. Or at least she wanted to be. To be honest, there was something still sitting and stirring in the back of her mind, and she couldn't put it to rest enough to go join the four CSIs against another wall of the building.

She just couldn't resolve it because she didn't quite know what it was. Everything was solved, right? Perfect, everything was _perfect_. _She_ had fixed it. Hadn't she? She didn't know.

After all, Nick had treated them to the first real smile she'd seen on his face in two months.

And then Greg - she never thought she'd see him smile again. She never even thought he'd smile again in her dreams. She thought she'd always just imagine what his face must have looked like that night two months as he was dragged away - to image what it was that seemed to haunt the dreams of the rest of her team as well. She had imagined his disappointment, how he would process every scene and epithelial better than she ever would, and how her locker would always really be his, no matter how long or hard she worked.

She thought she'd spend enough of the rest of her career living in the shadow of his nightmare, but here he was smiling.

Like everything was alright. Surely, if Greg and Nick were both smiling, then everything _was_ alright.

Catherine seemed to still be taking in the whole event, but she had a certain contented sense of closure lingering in her movements and the way she stared at Ari's body as if some long tragedy had finally ended.

And Warrick seemed content just to hold her hand and radiate that contagious calm he served so well.

But Wendy couldn't quite absorb the moment's finality.

Something _wasn't_ finished. Something remained unfinished, and it lingered in her mind, a persistent loose end intruding on her peace of mind.

_Black wavy hair. _

Even Bruce Jared wore a relieved expression, but Nicola - or Sandra Ortega, whoever she was - sat listlessly on the ground, pushing sand across the concrete with acquiescence. Her face was just as dejected as her wavering motions.

Wendy got up. Problem not-quite-solved.

"Sandra Ortega," Wendy said as she approached the girl.

The other woman looked up, startled.

"That is your real name, right?"

"Aren't you done interrogating me?" the woman replied, tiredly.

"No."

The other woman nodded. Her eyes were sad, and Wendy honestly didn't quite understand why. But she knew she _needed_ to understand.

"Please," she said, more kindly this time. "I just want to know what happened. I want to know everything."

Nicola nodded even as her expression failed to lift.

* * *

_Weeks earlier..._

The dryness woke her. All she tasted was dry and sticky. She coughed, and felt solid shards escape her wounded mouth. The blood was salty and warm, but did little to alleviate her thirst. She gasped for cooler air and any sign of humidity it might bring. She felt the fresh air echo off of the hollow corridors of her throat, bouncing a temporary, chilled relief across the roof of her mouth.

Nonetheless, it was of little use. The thirst was still there, nullifying the open sores from which the blood continued to seep. The thirst was all-consuming, and it made her forget - almost - all of the pain she was in.

Pushing her hands underneath her, she edged up. She immediately felt the gravel below her bite into her bare knees, and the pain was remembered again. She let out a sad moan, reminding her of why the blood continued to seep down from all angles formed by her own sore joints, painting the hard, grey gravel a deep, dark, ghastly ruby.

She drew in a gasp as a solitary tear joined the blood and gravel on the hard night's ground.

Light overwhelmed her, and she flinched, despite the pain immediately radiating up her spine. Hands automatically moved to shelter her scared eyes, and she was unsure if they sought to protect from the light, or to hide her from its source. Given the night - _that_ night - and its dismal contents, the light's owner could be no friend of hers.

"I found something!" The voice was male, and a bit high pitched on the ends. That she could tell. She groaned softly, still trying to hide. Footsteps shuffled before her, and she inched back, this time ignoring the pain completely as she retreated into pure animalistic defense mode.

Dark, dirty hair covered her eyes' pathway to the feet in front of her. The feet looked large. She couldn't make out their color in the quickly evaporating dark, to which her eyes had yet to adjust. She just wanted it to go away.

The feet morphed into a rapidly descending figure. It all came down - face first, and then neck, torso and arms following behind it as it bent down to stare at her. In her weary, addled state, she recognized the face.

Stories wound their way back into her mind, trickling down pictures from books and illustrated Bibles, with their tales of sin and salvation. She saw, before her, the angel come to take her home. He was tall, but, then again, she figured Gabriel would have grown in the years since the days of the Birth and Resurrection.

Golden brown curls tangled around his face as the wide brown eyes looked through her, no doubt searching for signs of her own good deeds. She choked back a sob, knowing that she was unworthy. St. Peter's gates would not open for her. They _could_ not, after what she'd done. After what a _whore_ she'd let herself turn into.

The eyes were so wide, so beautiful and so overwhelming. A thin, long nose tapered down from them and reminded her of Greek statues from age-old textbooks smuggled into school. He was a frightening, pale angel, with too many wrinkles of worry clenching his gorgeous face. She could see the smudges of earth, left from his descent to her sordid home of the moment. _Why?_ she wondered. _Why dirty himself to lift a whore like me? Why bare such dirt, and such worry?_

The eyes held no answer for her. Thin lips pressed into a worried line, and she wondered again why he held such interest. Surely one as important as he had better things to be doing, or better people to be judging. Hers was, surely, not an ambiguous case. She deserved no heaven, only a still, calm death. _Death?_ She pondered. She had in fact died. She _must_ have.

The eyes bored into hers yet again, but their centers rose, curiously, giving the impression of sympathy - almost. She let out a breath, surprising herself. _Dead people don't breathe!_

Gabriel took a step back, startled. No doubt he had anticipated her death as well. Perhaps, now, he would have to leave. She was not his to carry up into the skies, or, more likely, down into the depths, though she doubted that was a journey he typically assisted with anyways. She wondered how often he made this mistake.

Somehow, however, he seemed to recover from the surprise. He turned around and yelled off into the distance. No doubt, she thought, he had an assistant. His was an important job, after all.

"She's alive!" His yell was gruff and surprisingly nasally. His English was flawless, even so much that the last syllable lacked the proper emphasis of her native Spanish.

She rolled her eyes. She'd never imagined that Gabriel would speak like an American.

The head descended yet again. This time, she could make out scars on the fragile face. A thick line of maroon struck through his cheek, and the moonlight danced against paling skin - clearly new - that bit down next to the dry pink thin lips.

She breathed deeply as he brought long legs and a full torso down to join the dusty, breathtaking face.

"Everything's gonna be alright."

She wanted to laugh.

Shiny yellow hands reached down to stroke her forehead, harmonizing with the gentle words. The hands were inhuman, enough so that she didn't mind the contact. The motions and warmth seemingly hidden underneath the flexible yellow skin was humane enough to be comforting, and she was surprised to find herself leaning into the hands. She had promised herself that no man would ever again touch her, that she would never again see those harsh, cruel hands riddled with thick veins and tiny dark hairs. But his were free of human imperfections. They were sterile, so she welcomed them.

After all, his were the hands of an angel, not of a man, she thought, as the hands' motions turned into a softly weaving sea, and the world departed in gentle waves calling her home.

* * *

The sky was dark, as she hurried through the small grove. Tall branches curved above her, as the sky rumbled. One branch crept out, softly floating and swirling in the breeze as it beckoned her to come. She shook her head, but her left foot angled her path anyways.

She could hear the steps behind her. They slowed down, but what they lost in speed, they more than made up for in volume. The deafening thunder of heavy feet terrified her not with its roar but with the menacing laughter tucked sporadically behind it.

Her own pace quickened, but she knew it was no use, as the apathetic, lustful eyes stared, with a frightening nonchalance, beside the bark. If she could only make it to the trees in time...

Suddenly, she felt the grip on her ankle. It was light and airy, and looked up at her with sad eyes. The figure was bathed in a light, white robe, and in its own ethereal quality. It guided her toward the trees.

A foot stomped down and the figure was gone. She could see the rumpled white wings now covered in the dirt and blood wiped off of the heavy boot.

Clear, crystal blood floated out over the figure, and she heard the little grunt as the liquid reached the shattered halo, rusting it on impact. Rust gave way to dust, and the now-brown ring disintegrated, scattering tired particles into the air, with a few flecks hitting her tongue, though she didn't even register leaving her mouth open. It tasted sharp, bitter and dry on her tongue.

A moanful cry let out and she knew the angel was dead.

She reached down a hand to console the tiny, delicate, pale fingers, but she couldn't reach far enough down, and only saw as they curled up around cold, unfeeling air, and lost their warmth. She could see the vibrant air depart the fragile fingers, and looked up at the foot's satanic possessor.

Gesturing a hand down at the dead angel, she gestured then at the demon in front of her, waving slowly, in horror. The demon grinned, and she could feel the fear blanketing her.

_If only I could reach the trees..._

Her knees gave way to plummet into the forest, over the tiny body, but viscous water gripped her ankles tighter as she tried to inch forward. It was quicksand, but wetter. As she struggled past the puddle, or was it a lake, hands caught her before she could make much progress. _Hands..._ She hated the hands... How she _hated_ them.

She was caught in a net of hands. They poked and prodded and touched, hitting and hurting her. She felt the shame rise in her cheeks as she cried out, knowing no sound came out of her now-bloody mouth.

She saw the demon's twisted, gleeful smile before water enveloped her.

* * *

Hands ushered the demons away, pressing down on her forehead and back, rubbing vigorously. Instinctively, she pushed back the hands, shrinking away from them simultaneously, and was surprised to find her escape halted by softness. It was harder than she'd imagined the clouds of heaven and, after her dream, she knew there could be no providence for her. Which meant one thing.

She opened her eyes, to see her Gabriel, no longer an angel, in front of her, rubbing his right wrist and wearing an expression of surprise.

"I'm sorry." Gabriel looked down, sheepishly. "I tried - well - I thought water - I figured water would." He stopped, pausing his words and furrowing his brows. "You were having a nightmare."

She nodded, still speechless.

"I- I didn't know what to do. I - The water -" He seemed to have finally come upon his answer. "I squirted you with the water to try to wake you - I mean, to stop you from having the night terror. I mean... I'm only assuming that's what it was." His voice grew soft. "You were... shaking and turning... and talking... like it was one. I hope you don't mind."

His head was bent, and she could see the rosy color rise through his features. The present light illuminated him and she could tell that he was far darker than she'd originally thought, under the ghastly glow of the previous night. He looked less angelic, more human... more scared.

"Thank you." She replied, her voice equally soft. Her own tone surprised her. There was a harsh, yet scared rasp to it, and the thirst beckoned her again. She coughed, while trying to inhale.

"I'll - I'll go get you some water. Some more water. For you to drink, I mean."

"Thanks," she said again, this time in more of a thick whisper.

The door opened again, quickly revealing a new presence. The footsteps were heavier, yet softer - as if getting along better with the ground beneath them. Confidence exuded from the new presence, and a warm smile stretched over small, yellowing teeth.

Grey hair hung down her back, and the small eyes were opened to the world.

The women glided over the slick, speckled hospital floor tiles and edged over to the seat nearest the bed, but first placing one of two hefty mugs onto the bedside table.

"Hola, chica."

"Hola, Señora."

"I am no longer a Señora," the woman replied with a sad chuckle.

She was struck by the woman's decision to converse in both English and Spanish, though even she could see the obvious accent in the English. Her confusion gave way to her own attempt at bilingualism, as she apologized in both languages, for what was revealed in the woman's newly revealed status, to be the past loss of a husband. "Ah. Lo siento. I am sorry."

"C'est la vie."

She looked at the woman curiously. "That is not English either, no yo pienso."

"Such is life." The woman replied with a chuckle. "French." The age lines - she looked to be around 50 or 60 - were visible in her face as she chuckled. As the not-quite-angel edged back into the room, the woman straightened her face, even as a bright smile shone underneath. "Yet some languages are universal. I'm sure you knew 'c'est la vie' at some point."

But the girl in the bed didn't know what she had known at some point - at _any_ point. She couldn't remember anything, and she wasn't really sure if she wanted to either.

* * *

A man in a white coat was staring at her, sadly and inquisitively, when she opened her eyes.

"Sí?"

The man shook his head slowly, as if to his own thoughts. He cautiously edged closer to the bed, and blue lettering on the long, faded white jacket revealed him as Dr. Raúl Díaz, Chief Resident. He was making her uncomfortable, and nervous.

"This happens to too many of you," Dr. Díaz finally replied.

"¿Cómo? How?"

Dr. Díaz looked uncomfortable for a moment. "I know... that you had some amnesia... but maybe someone else should explain that to you."

"What do you mean?"

"I- I'm not the best person to explain what happened to you." He rushed at the end of his sentence, clearly betraying his nerves.

"Oh." She knew what had happened to her. She didn't need an explanation. She stared down at the grey and blue hospital blanket covering her, as if that could hide the shame rising in her cheeks.

"I'll go get Dr. Martinez. She... well, you should probably talk to her."

She nodded as he rushed out the door, away from the awkward, embarrassing exchange.

A woman - apparently Dr. Martinez - entered next, wearing an even more worn jacket. Dr. Martinez's jacket could barely even be discerned as having once been white.

She glanced up from the bed, waiting for an answer.

"Hi." Dr. Martinez's cheeks were rosy, and her smile betrayed real welcome. She wondered what Dr. Martinez was so happy about.

"¿Por que sonreye?"

Dr. Martinez seemed to be somewhat taken aback by the forwardness of her patient - _why do you smile? _- and her patient responded by staring back at the hospital blanket.

Dr. Martinez paused - briefly - before speaking. "Most girls... who this happens to don't make it. I'm glad to see you're still alive."

"Um... thanks." She really wasn't sure how to respond to that - being categorized with all the "other girls." She knew about the other girls - she always had. Ciudad Juárez had become infamous for the brutal murders that had came to be known as 'las feminicides.' To date, hundreds of young women had fallen victim.

As cliched as it was - as often as anyone falling victim to anything felt it - she had just never expected to be one of them.

She wasn't even sure if she wanted to go home. She couldn't quite remember where it was. She didn't know why she even remembered the 'feminicides,' and the name of her city, or even how to speak either English or Spanish, but she couldn't remember quite where her home was, or her friends or her family, at least not as well as she knew she should have been able to.

Dr. Martinez started again. "Lenora found you," she started, as if her patient knew who Lenora was. "She's been scavenging around, looking for victims, survivors... corpses of girls still missing." Her patient gulped. "Do you remember anything?"

She immediately shook her head.

Dr. Martinez nodded slowly. "Do you remember your name, so we at least have something to put on the medical records?"

The response was tentative. Giving a name meant that information could get around, and that she could be found again. She didn't want to be found. After what had happened, she wanted to disappear. So long to old people, old home, old family and old name. Maybe, if she thought hard enough, she could remember her name. But she didn't want to. She shook her head.

"Okay," Dr. Martinez replied. "Umm... A nurse will come in later to take your vitals."

She nodded, though unsure as to what the English word 'vital' meant.

The angel-man and the not-a-señora woman - apparently Lenora -re-emerged in the room.

"Hola, mi cariña," the woman introduced herself, already nicknaming the patient affectionately. "Me llama Lenora, y está Guito," she said, motioning to the angel-man.

"Hola," Guito said, almost warmly. She could now tell that his accent was decidedly American, probably west coast. _And what an odd name he has._

"¿Tiene un nombre?" he asked.

She was taken aback by the question. Asking her name was no surprise, but his decision to say 'tiene,' in the 'usted' form, as one would address someone respected, or an adult, rather than 'tienes,' the 'tu' form, which she would have expected given her age and status, surprised her.

"No lo tengo." _I don't have one._

"Ah. Um..." He paused. "It's nice to meet you anyways." She was pleased that he did not extend his hand to shake, even though he still didn't quite make her as nervous after their first encounter.

"¿Quieres volver a tu hogar?" She was unsurprised that Lenora referred to her in the 'tu' form. The woman seemed to be in the senior position, possibly over Guito as well.

"No, no lo quiero," she responded, adding, in English, to make sure they understood her, "I don't want to."

Lenora looked back at Guito, as if asking for his approval or advice. He nodded back at her, shrugging his shoulders.

"Puedes volver con nosotros, a mi casa. You can come home with us."

* * *

"Necesito nombre."

She groaned, and shifted, startled, at the unfamiliar voice. She looked around to catch her bearings, finally finding herself in a stopped car. The voice's owner looked familiar. _Angel..._ She struggled for an explanation. _Guito._

He raised an eyebrow, clearly waiting for a response.

"Huh?"

"You need a name," he said, clearly more comfortable in English.

"You mean," she said, in close-enough-to-perfect English. "Necesit_as_ _una_ nombre."

He smiled sheepishly, revealing white teeth. But it was not a vicious, toothy smile. He honestly had a nice smile. A genuine, kind smile. "Gracias para tu _teaching_... teacher?"

She laughed, for just about the first time since... _well, since then, _she thought, tone quickly turning bitter again.

He seemed to sense her discomfort. "Are you alright?"

She nodded.

"The flashbacks and all can be kind of intense at first. Don't worry. They'll go away."

She nodded, understanding most of what he said. "How do you know?"

"I-" He turned away, tongue tied. "Well, I've been working with Lenora for a while... I learn about it."

She nodded.

"So... a name?"

"No me importa."

"You don't care?"

"No. A girl's name. And not some _feo_ American girl's name."

"American names aren't ugly! Well, actually, I don't really even know what an _American _name is. I mean, I can't remember any Native American names off of the top of my head. Other than that, a lot of names in the US are just taken from other cultures, just like pretty much every other part of American culture."

"Sin consequencia, I still do not want una name like... _Gertrude_," she replied with disgust on the name's harsh consonants. "Some US names just sound... feo... ugly."

Guito nodded, chuckling. "Lo comprendo." He looked thoughtful for a moment. "Nicola. How about that?"

She looked at him questioningly.

"It still sounds kinda Spanish."

She raised an eyebrow.

"Okay, maybe not. It has an 'a' at the end?"

She chuckled, shaking her head. "Nunca... I _never_ - thinked? - _thought _that I'd be able to choose my own name."

"Well," he said, somewhat solemnly. "Here's your chance."

"Why 'Nicola?'"

He looked thoughtful for a second, before replying. "I just thought... I have - had - a friend - uh... It's the name of a survivor. Someone I... really respected. You kind of remind me of him, almost."

"Almost?"

Their conversation was interrupted by Lenora ushering them out of the car, and into a relatively large adobe house.

* * *

Sitting at the table, eating soup, Nicola wondered at her new life. In many ways, it was nice - _scratch that - in _most_ ways, it's nice. _

She no longer had to trudge away to the maquilador, and spend the day toiling away in the factory, producing goods she would never even have the money to purchase.

She no longer heard the angry tirades from her mother when she didn't bring home enough, or when she was too tired to cook.

She no longer had to share a small closet of a room.

Now, she had Lenora to watch out for her, and Guito to... well, to be her friend.

She still didn't understand what it was that Guito and Lenora did. One of them had to be bringing in the money, but she didn't know which one.

Lenora and Guito always seemed to be gone - Lenora especially. Nicola heard murmurs of their work - whatever it was. They would disappear, more often than not during the night, and come back dejected. Sometimes, they came back downright sad. One time she'd seen Guito cry.

The sound of a car pulling up distracted Nicola from her midnight snack. Nicola instinctively turned off the lights. She couldn't help her paranoia; she was afraid of who might be occupying the vehicle now parked only a few hundred feet away. She trusted Guito and Lenora, but that was it.

Crouching down under the table, she waited as the door opened. Familiar voices filled the air, though the sounds drifted in viscously, betraying her housemates' fatigue.

Recognizing the opportunity she had - to unravel some small part of a mystery - Nicola waited. Waiting for her eyes to adjust to the dark, she sat calmly and stared at the pair. Guito trudged off to his room rather immediately after entering the house.

* * *

"It gets easier."

"Hm?"

She looked up from the bed, at the man now looming in the door frame. Again, his stance, somehow, didn't scare her. Somehow, he was still the angel in her eyes.

"You're thinking about _it_, weren't you?"

She nodded.

"It gets easier."

"I'll take your word for it."

He walked over, slowly, towards the bed, before stepping back as if something startled him. "Sorry."

"For what?"

"For coming in... without your permission."

"Don't worry about it." She appreciated his understanding, even if it did seem almost like babying. "You don't scare me."

He chuckled, but quickly stifled it. "Thanks."

She met his eyes with equally grinning ones. "It really does get easier."

He nodded.

"You don't seem too phased. You almost joked about it, kind of, just now. You found something related to what happened to laugh about."

He nodded.

Guito had seemed reluctant to admit that something violent had happened to him, but _she_ - now Nicola - had figured it out. As long as she didn't go out and say it to him directly, then they were fine. It worked well because she didn't want anyone saying exactly what had happened to her either. So, they operated in euphemisms.

"Laughter is the tonic, the relief, the surcease for pain."

She looked at him curiously, not the least because of the unfamiliar vocabulary.

"I'll take your word for it."

"Take Charlie Chaplin's."

"Who's he?"

"The guy who said that quote."

"Ah. So he's the one who used the word 'surcease'?"

"Yeah. He wasn't a particularly pretentious dude, but he did use the occasional ridiculously antiquated word."

"Antiquated?"

"Uh.. old and stuffy... for a word."

She nodded, giving him a strange look.

"What he meant to say was that, when you're down, laughter can always bring you back up."

"That's cool."

"Yup. Back where I used to be - people got into a lot of bad situations. A lot of people thought that the way to make them feel better... would be to feel sorry for them, to pity or coddle them. Being here... I learned that that's not the case. The only real way to get past something... bad... happening to you... is laughter. It's the world's best therapy. For everything."

"I take it you're a frequent practitioner?"

"Nice word!"

She chuckled. "I heard one of the med students use 'practitioner.'"

"Nice."

"So who's Charlie Chaplin?"

"Famous American comedian."

"Ah. Smart guy, huh?"

"Yep. Laughter was his business."

She nodded. "Nice business to be a part of. Lenora doesn't work for a comedy troupe, does she?"

"No."

"And neither do you?"

"No, I don't. But our work is good anyways. As long as we can find laughter at the end of the day."

She nodded again. "Seems like a miserable job."

He pursed his lips. "Except the bright spots."

"What are those?"

"Finding people alive."

"Like me."

"Like you."

They sat in peaceful silence.

"Got any other fun quotes?"

"The human race has but one really affective weapon, and that is laughter."

She looked up, waiting for a source.

"Mark Twain. Great _humorist_."

Nicola nodded. "I think I've heard of him."

"Good thing. He was a pretty awesome guy. One of the books he wrote - Huck Finn - was considered by many the greatest American novel."

"Really? I just remember it having a lot of dirty words, and people trying to ban it."

"Well, times change. People did try to censor it. Huck Finn wasn't exactly the model citizen parents wanted their kids to look up to. I mean - he was a runaway with a dirty mouth and no interest or respect for societal standards. But, despite all of his - let's just go with 'quirks' - despite those, or maybe even _because_ of those, he was able to see society and certain standards it set in a whole new light, and to allow the reader to see that as well."

"College lit class?"

"No, actually. I just loved that book. Huck was a rebel. A _cool_, and rather funny kid with a propensity for saying some damn hilarious things. He did his own thing, and, in the end, came out all the better for it."

"You really need to stop with the big English words."

"Propensity?"

She nodded, and he chuckled.

"He was my hero back in the day," Guito added.

"Back in the day? When was that, 1950?"

"Of course not. I'm offended. I was one of the first people to _pick_ Huck Finn off the shelves -"

"When was that?"

"1884."

"Uh huh. Yeah I can see the grey coming in there." She poked his head.

"Hey now. Don't mess with the hair."

She moved back. "Now that I think of it, I _do_ remember Mark Twain. He had some pretty crazy hair." She looked at Guito more closely. "I can see the resemblance."

"Ha," he deadpanned back. "Young people these days."

"_Old_ people these days - especially the ones with funky hair and big words."

They both laughed, partly from the quasi-humorous conversation, but mainly because they needed the levity.

Guito chuckled again, before looking up. "Laughter is not at all a bad beginning for a friendship, and it is by far the best ending for one."

Nicola stared, waiting.

"Oscar Wilde."

* * *

"Oy, Gris," she said, growling.

Gris tried to growl back at her. He was a mumbling dog, and a sensitive one at that. The desert-sandy dog - lord knew what breed or brand or fancy sort of type of dog he actually was - was ruffled in colors more found pressing down the desert's clays than her sands. Simply put, he was too orange. His complexion was just as baffling as his moods or, god forbid, pedigree. For a happy-go-lucky dog, he was a bit of a mope. And his intelligence certainly left Nicola wanting from time to time.

Guito, for all his attempts at gruffness, loved the mutt. One day, he'd been walking to the store, and the next, he'd come home trailed by the silly thing.

"Well," Nicola growled - still louder than Gris could muster. "We're going to have to talk to Uncle Guito about this."

Gris seemed to sense he was in trouble. Sad eyes and whines seemed to work on Guito, but so much on Nicola.

Alas for poor Gris, the mud strewn across Nicola's white blouse was irreversible.

And Guito, dear Guito who actually seemed to have, underneath it all, some sympathy for fashion, would be on her side.

She was ready to barge in (and Gris ready to turn the other way, yelp and be half-dragged, half-bored in) to the room.

Pre-emptive words met her instead.

"Hello to you too," he said, his voice gentle but strangely agitated. She couldn't put her finger on it, but there was something different. She'd never heard him talk quite like that before.

There was a pause as the person on the other line spoke.

"I know. I just had to talk to you." Pause again. "I know, I know. I wasn't sure what to do about it. I swear, s-"

Gris let out a satisfied _smrrf_ and began a careful gait to safety. _Laundry_.

For once, Nicola didn't even notice. The leash dropped on the muddy stray dog that technically wasn't even hers.

Guito turned around slightly but didn't seem to notice the motion.

"Okay. I got it. I know. I don't want to hurt you. Or them. I swear."

The hard pause left Nicola holding her breath.

"Not even him." His voice was quiet.

_Who was he?_

"No. Not even then. I just wanted to get away." More bitterness: "You of all people should understand that."

_Who? On the other line? Why?_

And then more regret: "How is he?" That was the kind, concerned voice she knew him for.

But who was _he_?

Guito gulped, and she could see his eyes grow somber.

"Cold? _Him_? More than usual?"

Nicola tried to stay completely quiet. Unnoticeable. Even though it was Guito who always noticed her.

"Yeah, he was." His voice was stripped, like it was all he had left.

There was a huff on the other line.

"What was he like? How's he doing? You saw him today?" She could hear the desperation, that and how the person on the other line - she thought it was a woman, but she couldn't be sure - rebuked the question.

"It counts," he said, more like he'd just given up _something_. "We broke up. For all practical purposes."

A pause and his head fell. More like his heart through his eyes and phone into too many jagged pieces, not quite breaking _that _connection, but it had to be breaking _something_.

"Yeah, there was," he replied, as if everything was back to normal. Perhaps he broke and glued himself back together frequently. In his off-time, when he got calls from mysterious female strangers.

"Fine."

And he was almost together - but a few parts lost on the dusty floor and maybe one or two cut through across telephone wires. But she wouldn't worry about those.

He paused, clearly contemplating something. "I miss you."

The person on the other line spoke again, and whatever it was they said seemed to make him re-consider something.

"It's too late for that," he said. "I miss you too," he repeated.

He moved to hang up, so Nicola began to dart away. Also because it made her sad. He looked so much older, so much more serious, in the space of one conversation.

Gris waved his tail against her hand and stared up forlornly. Like his puppy dog eyes would work this time.

"Fine," she said, giving up. Just for now, of course.

* * *

Nicola woke up screaming, again. _Men. Too many men_. She tried to push them away, but they wouldn't move. Hands gripped down - familiar, soft, kind hands - and shook her free.

She looked up to see Guito, and instinctively reached up to grasp him with all the strength she had. She clutched the familiar, worn fabric of the back of his shirt as she sobbed out her nightmare.

"Shhh. Shhh. It's alright," he spoke softly, while patting her back and holding her close. "Everything's alright, Nicola."

She pulled back. The way he said her name was stiff, and forced, as if he would have rather, or at least should have, said some other name.

"Sorry," she whispered.

"No, no. It's alright." He paused, his face growing fiercer. "In fact, don't you ever say sorry. It's not your fault. You have nothing to be sorry for."

"No. Not for that. I - I touched you. Wasn't supposed to."

His face sobered, and the words seemed to draw him back to the reality that was painful for both of them.

"It's alright," he said softly. "I'm fine."

"Thanks for being here," she whispered to his now moist shoulder. "I don't know what I'd do without you."

She felt him nod, in understanding. She felt him shift under her, and could tell that he was growing uncomfortable. But she didn't want to let go.

* * *

Hours later, Nicola woke, with a human blanket around her. Looking up, she could see Guito, his arms still wrapped around her - sheltering her from the scary world, and from her own dreams.

She sniffed, but quietly. She didn't want to wake him.

Long, dark eyelashes fluttered and his mouth creased in a frown, though he remained asleep.

He was so beautiful, and so angelic, in his sleep. She would have hoped that the world's worries would wash away from him in sleep, but they didn't seem to, as his brow creased again and he frowned, murmuring something. She held back a smile when she heard words that sounded like her own name. How wonderful it was, she thought, that such a man would be thinking of her in his sleep.

He was, really, not much older than she was. In her village, she had always been called a girl, but that had more to do with her unmarried status than her age. She was, legally, an adult. More than anything, she had been looked on as a girl because of her youthfulness. Her life, prior to _then_, had known few sorrows, and her face had been unmarred by little grief or worry. She liked that Lenora and Guito still saw her as a 'girl,' as if she were still innocent and carefree. They _let _her be that way, as much as was possible.

A heavy breathe from Guito distracted her. His lips parted, and she could make out a pink tongue reaching out against thin, equally pink lips. His lips were moist, and she could make out the smooth skin lines on them.

Above them sat a nose that she loved equally. It was so smooth, so straight and so symmetrical. She loved the way it tapered down to the kind lips.

He murmured something once again, though this time it sounded more pained. She sat up and looked at him for one more second, contemplating briefly her course of action. In the end, she was happy to return the favor.

She wasn't sure, exactly, what the protocol for waking someone from nightmares was, but she gave it her best shot, starting gentle. She eased a hand over his forehead, stroking the soft brown ringlets forming at the ends.

"Shhhh," she whispered. "It's alright."

She rubbed his forehead with more force, and heard him breathe a deep sigh of relief.

His eyes fluttered open and he reached, without looking, for her hand.

"Thanks."

She loved the way he thanked her - the way the accent of his voice seemed harder, but his words so soft and gentle.

Laying down next to him, she returned to sleep.

No matter what happened, everything would be alright because she had Guito.

* * *

Nicola sat huddled in her new bed, thinking about her new life. It still wasn't the same. The walls were a pale sky blue. Despite the similarities to a beautiful day, however, they only seemed cold to her. Her room at home had had warmer, richer colors. _More friendly_.

A warmer smell met her. It was fragrant and delicious. _Better_ than anything at home.

"Ready for dinner?"

Guito's smile was bright and happy. He still looked angelic or, at least, like some Greek statue.

* * *

Lenora stared out over the dinner table. She was proud of the meal. It had been too long since she'd made good soup. It was a hardy stew, the sopa de Flor, as she'd called it. The familiar, almost bittersweet aroma wafted up, drifting softly through the air and over her face. She felt refreshed, but knew it was not the condensation that brought soft, solitary tears to her eyes. But the tears stood still as the smell warmed her, and the soft padding of footsteps through the yard - accompanied, of course, by familiar, squawked greetings - broke her from reminiscent reveries.

Guito, as she called him, still walked heavily, and stiffly. His legs barely seemed to bend, but rather to shift forward just enough to edge in the right direction, one following slowly after the other. He looked up, per usual, seeming to feel her gaze. Somehow he always could. The boy was too aware of staring. Too self-conscious. Too conscious and cognizant of any and everything around him. He had seen too much of the world's horror. He knew it all too well.

She caught his expectant eyes, and smiled. He would always seem like a boy. She didn't know how old he was, but she could venture a guess. Nonetheless, there would always be too much innocence in his eyes to make him an adult, at least in her eyes. Then again, Lenora had always been chided for her tendency to 'go all maternal' as someone had often said. She sighed sadly at the memory. She should have known that the mixing smell of tomatoes, chilli, corn and that particular queso fresco would do this to her. But, for the innocent boy in front of her, and now for the new girl as well, it would make the delicious soup worth the teary memories it carried.

"Guito! Tienes hambre?"

The boy smiled sheepishly. The grumbling stomach gave him away, and Lenora laughed heartily.

"El estomago me contesta para tu."

"El estomago? But that implies 'the' stomach, not _my_ stomach. So that could easily be any stomach. Or _the_ stomach, like the..." Guito stumbled for words. "Like the greatest stomach ever. Or the stomach of God."

Lenora raised an eyebrow. "I'm proud that your Spanish is improving. Sin embargo, es no direct translacción." She knew the quick learner was catching on to her hybrid speech. _Spanglish_, he had called it. And it seemed to make the transition easier. Eventually, maybe they would move to a full immersion.

He cocked his head curiously. She explained more.

"For body parts, you don't use - or rather don't need - the possessive. If you know, and I know, that I'm talking about _your_ stomach, then I say 'el estomago,' not 'tu estomago.' Ahora, is not translacción directa a _English_." She spoke the last word with a cringe. 'English' would always sound like such an ugly word to her. The hard consonants combined with the soft 'shh' repulsed her for a reason she could not name.

He nodded, laughing slightly at her aversion to the name of his native tongue.

"Que..." He seemed to be struggling with a word. "_Cocinó?"_

Lenora smiled. He had correctly conjugated the verb 'to cook' into the past tense, and the 'usted,' or formal 'you' form. "Ahh," she said, beaming at her quickly learning student. "Learning in español is ... terminado... for esta noche."

"Esta noche," he translated, mimicking her beaming. "This night. And 'terminado' means over, or done."

She clapped mockingly, but still baring a proud smile. "Good work, mi corderito."

"But I thought my Spanish lesson was over for the night? For _this_ night?"

"Ah, but tu no piensas -"

"Ah, ah, ah." He waved a finger at her.

She shook her head, chuckling, and admitting her mistake. "_You _don't _think_," she began, translating her own words to English, begrudgingly. She furrowed her brows, seeking a better word. "You don't _know_ what cordero means. So it's not _lesson_, as you speak."

He nodded, rolling his eyes. "So what does corderito mean then?"

She laughed again, a big, booming laugh. "Spanish lesson is over for now, yes? So I cannot tell you."

He rolled his eyes again. "Fine."

"You not to -" she mimicked the eye roll, exaggeratedly, not knowing the verb herself - "At me, Guito."

He stopped himself from rolling his eyes again, at her last command. "It's _rolling eyes._"

"I know eyes, just not rolling," she replied, humorously indignant. "How do you roll an eye anyways?" She picked up a shoe lying on the ground and tried to roll it on the ground. He only laughed.

"Figure of speech."

Lenora couldn't help but smile, shaking her head as the boy made his way toward the sink to wash his hands. She was not normally one to imitate rolling a shoe, nor to do anything else similarly silly. But the boy brought out the silliness in her. For all the darkness and sadness in his life, she could see the smile buried underneath, and, as the best smiles did, his smile brought out her own.

* * *

"Is that sufficient?" Nicola asked. The younger woman looked exhausted, but also strangely refreshed. Suddenly unburdened almost.

Wendy couldn't quite say yes. She couldn't put her finger on it, but something was still amiss.

"Your real name is Sandra Ortega."

Nicola didn't respond.

"Lenora and Greg found you in the factory, after you'd been... badly injured."

Nicola glanced away uncomfortably but nodded nonetheless.

"And then you stayed here to avoid going back. You didn't want to go back to your old life. You didn't want to remember."

"I wanted to escape. Same as him."

Wendy thought hard before asking her next question wrapped in a statement. "CSI Sanders knows your real name."

"No," Nicola replied easily. "I never told him. He gave me the name." She stared at Wendy. "I thought I already told you that."

"What did CSI Sanders tell you about the Lab?"

Nicola shook her head. "Nothing. He never spoke of his previous life. I already told you that."

"You said he never even told you his real name. He was always just "Guito"."

Nicola nodded again.

"You told me _Guito_ gave you the name Nicola. You never mentioned CSI Sanders. _Nobody_ mentioned CSI Sanders."

Nicola stared in confusion, but her eyes widened when she realized her mistake.

"You said he kept his life in Vegas a complete secret from you - that you didn't know his name. And yet you knew his last name. That he was a CSI."

Nicola glanced away. "I don't know how I knew that. He must have let it slip."

"Or someone else let it slip."

Nicola didn't answer again, but Wendy knew to expect that.

"How did Greg know that Nick and I would be in Juárez looking for his body?"

"Lucky coincidence?"

"If we had just seen you that first time, when we first met with Ari, I would believe you. But twice in a row? That's more than just coincidence."

Nicola glanced around uncomfortably, once again.

Then Wendy noticed the item in Nicola's hand - that same item that had been in her hand weeks before when they'd first come to Juárez.

"Where'd you get that flashlight?" she asked curiously.

Nicola hesitated. "Guito must have brought it back with him. When he came here. To Mexico. He must have had it with him."

And yet Greg's flashlight had still been in his kit. Wendy _knew_ that. Only one CSI kit was missing its flashlight.

And Wendy knew which CSI that was.

"Is that all?" Nicola asked hopefully.

"Yeah," Wendy said with a smile.

Nicola began to turn away.

"Just one more thing. You see, there was someone I was hoping to stop by and visit while I was in town, and I'm pretty darn sure you'll know where to find her since you saw her the last time she was in Juárez."

Nicola eyed her warily.

"So tell me, where do you think I could find Sara Sidle?"

**TBC**

A/N: Same as usual, reviews are very much appreciated. Let me know if you liked or disliked the chapter :)


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